


Scenarios and Exchanges

by ceinneidigh



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU - Mostly Canon until mid-Mizumono, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Will, Chilton Being an Asshole, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hannibal might actually be the devil, M/M, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Possessive Hannibal, Resolved Sexual Tension, Revenge Plots, Smut, Top Hannibal, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Gets in Touch with his Inner Darkness, Will Loves Hannibal, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 29,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceinneidigh/pseuds/ceinneidigh
Summary: AU that diverges from canon when Will doesn't make it to Hannibal's house in Mizumono. Picks up sometime around the middle of S3 timewise. Hannibal is locked in his glass cage, Will is chasing the Tooth Fairy after being dragged out of retirement by Jack, but is lacking both enthusiasm and inspiration. There's only one place to find it, of course... and in the process, Will begins to realize that he has never gotten over his fascination with the good doctor. Things get complicated, especially when a prison transfer goes awry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be interesting to explore what would happen if Will hadn't managed to get to Hannibal's house at the end of Mizumono. Also, I have incorporated and cannibalized (ha) bits and pieces from book/movie/show canon to tell a new story so some elements will be recognizable, in a Fuller-ish sort of way.

The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane

“Hello, Will.”

Even in hospital blues, Dr. Lecter stood with the erect carriage of a dancer, as elegant as a pheasant in a butcher’s case behind the glass wall of his cell. Though he hadn’t been announced, Hannibal had clearly been expecting his visitor, no doubt scenting his approach with the unnaturally keen senses of an apex predator. His hooded gaze drifted unhurriedly over Will’s travel-rumpled form; the FBI profiler fought the urge to squirm under its weight. Gathering himself, he met Dr. Lecter’s oddly maroon colored eyes and replied,

“Hello Dr. Lecter.”

“I’d ask to see your credentials,” commented the former psychiatrist, his voice slightly husky with disuse, “but we know each other rather too well for that. Did Jack send you?”

The sibilant Lithuanian rasp of his voice brought unbidden memories with it; it had been Will at the end, who had betrayed him; the duplicitous game he’d played, never truly knowing which side of it he’d be on when the hammer fell, and at the end of it all, when he’d called Hannibal to warn him – he hadn’t known he was going to until he heard the doctor’s voice – his cell phone had died without ceremony, thanks to the capricious service in Wolftrap. The convoy arriving at his house moments later found him arrested, though briefly, for the murder of Randall Tier. In the meantime, Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom were fighting for their lives, and Hannibal had waited for the police to arrive and politely surrendered. Will, with his preternatural curse of empathy, was profoundly unsettled by this development. Three years had passed, and gradually, the mixture of guilt and self-doubt had begun to fade, largely thanks to Molly Foster, who soothed his stormy soul with warmth and quiet acceptance. She did not know that he had once killed a man with his bare hands and presented him to Hannibal Lecter like a bloody bouquet on his dining room table. Or that he had enjoyed it – found it intimate. Powerful. 

“No,” said Will, looking away toward the drawings on the walls; exquisite charcoal on butcher’s paper. Jack Crawford had, in fact, wholeheartedly disapproved of this idea.

“Did you draw all of these from memory?” he asked, apropos of nothing. Hannibal hummed in approval.

“Memory, Will, is what I have instead of a view,” he said, “that is the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere. Do you know Florence?”

“No,” said Will again, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. It was too big for him. He’d lost weight recently.

“I haven’t had a lot of time for vacations in Europe.“

“No doubt Agent Crawford has kept you busy, especially with this new boy,” said Hannibal, low pitched and curious.

“Do you know something about him?” inquired Will, perhaps a little too sharply. 

“I might, if I saw the case file,” replied Hannibal, “tell me, why do they call him the Tooth Fairy? The newspapers won’t say.”

“You can thank Freddy Lounds for that charming appellation,” said Will, “Tattlecrime coined the phrase because he’s a biter ... among other oral fixations.”

They regarded each other silently for a long moment. There was a chasm of unspoken words between them, and yet nothing need be said. Will felt an unbidden thrill of recognition. Hannibal smiled faintly, the slight curl of his lips as familiar as Will’s own face in the mirror. The profiler forgot to breathe for a moment. There had been a time when the two of them had been so close that Will had felt they were two halves of the same dark whole; there was a level of terrifying intimacy he’d never known before – not physical intimacy, but hadn’t there been times when he’d felt a visceral excitement at Hannibal Lecter’s close proximity that left him hot and tingling and confused? There had. The moment was broken only when the monster looked away toward the television screen outside the cells. 

“A gospel program?” said Will, his tone laced with bitter amusement.

“Doctor Chilton does enjoy his petty torments,” replied Hannibal, with apparent equanimity.

“Perhaps he’s earned them,” replied Will levelly, “I’d say the scale is still tipped drastically in your favor.”

“He loved to see you behind the glass just as much as me,” pointed out Hannibal, “an unqualified zookeeper, with a taste for dangerous pets.”

“Yet you chose to be here,” said Will, hazardously close to bringing up the past despite his resolution not to. He did not argue with the categorization that placed him alongside Hannibal; it would have tasted like a lie in his mouth. Hannibal said nothing, merely regarded the profiler with his faint, enigmatic half smile.

After a long, not precisely awkward pause, Will reached into his bag and brought out a thick, rather dog eared case file, secured with an elastic band to prevent any gory photographs from escaping to be gawked at. Not that he could give those to Hannibal, of course; he had removed them in the car before coming inside. He deposited the file in the sliding food carrier and pushed it through with a rattling thump. 

“We think he’s killing on a lunar cycle,” said Will, “which means there’s only a week until he does it again.”

“Why do you suppose I’d want to help the FBI catch this ambitious boy of yours?” inquired Hannibal, plucking the case file out of the drawer and placing it on the metal table.

“There are things I could get for you, to make you more comfortable in here,” said Will, “your books – “

“I won’t bargain for petty privileges, Will. What I want is a view. I want a window where I can see a tree, or even water. I want to be in a federal institution, far away from Dr. Chilton.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You underestimate yourself, Will. I imagine there is a great deal of pressure being brought to bear upon men and women regarding this case who wield far greater influence than yourself. They would surely be receptive to such a reasonable proposal.”

“Are you saying you know who he is?”

“I’m saying I’ll help you catch him.”

“What makes you think I need your help?” snapped Will, perhaps more sharply than he had intended.

Hannibal was silent for a moment, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with vague amusement. He did not need to point out the obvious – Will’s presence here was certainly not a casual visit.

“Did you simply come to get the old scent, Will?” he inquired softly, the silence roughened rasp of his accented Lithuanian. He met the profiler’s gaze and held it. 

“Why not just smell yourself?”

“Even if I could somehow make this happen, there’s no way for it to be done before the next full moon,” said Will, trying to mask his frustration and not succeeding very well, “tell me what you know and I promise to do what I can to get you transferred.”

“I’m afraid that your track record speaks for itself, Will. All good things to those who wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

Will left the hospital in the brisk Baltimore chill, mulling over Hannibal’s proposal; he knew that it would be an exercise in futility to take it to Jack Crawford, who had already made his feelings about Hannibal’s possible involvement inescapably clear. He also very much doubted that Jack would care for the idea of Hannibal Lecter in a Federal pen, where security was harsh but not impenetrable. 

As it happened, he wouldn’t need to wrack his brains for very long, but oblivious to this fact, he returned to the Econo Lodge where he was staying; it was already twilight, teetering on the brink of dark. He locked the door behind him and threw the keys to his rental car on the scarred dresser, his mind turning involuntarily to the rough caress of Hannibal’s voice; it had been so long since they’d been face to face, he’d forgotten the way certain syllables sent the occasional frisson through the center of his chest, ran an intangible finger down the center of his spine. 

Flustered, he shrugged out of the fleece lined jacket that he wore; it was bought new for this trip. A winter coat was not something one typically needed in the Florida Keys; the somnolent heat there was soothing and sometimes oppressive, and the return to the razor cold of Baltimore in the winter awakened something in him that had lain dormant under the Florida sun. Without taking his shoes off, Will spun the cap off the pint of Bulleit bourbon he’d bought on the way to the hotel, and poured a double shot into one of the plastic mouthwash cups from the tidy little en suite. He couldn’t help thinking of how appalled Hannibal would be if he could see, and a bitter, defiant little quirk of a smile touched his mouth before he swallowed half of it. 

The spreading warmth in his chest soothed his tempestuous nerves enough for him to remember his promise to call Molly. Sweet Molly. He conjured up a mental picture of her, perched at the end of their dock with Walter next to her, fishing; his imagination was sharply honed, and in his mind, she wears a striped halter, knee length shorts clinging to her legs, the old frayed ones that he likes; a stipple of sweat beads her forehead and her full top lip in the sun, and her hair is caught up in a messy bun, strands tickling her softly rounded cheeks. He can smell sea air, see the small fish flitting through the sun dappled water. Then the sky darkens and somehow, his traitorous mind replaces the clean scent with the visceral, coppery thickness of blood; she turns, and her eyes are the deep maroon of Hannibal’s.

His head jerked a fraction, the pleasant thought lost and replaced with a hollow ache and an almost nauseating longing that didn’t have a precise source. He threw back the rest of his drink, took a long, shuddering breath and reached for the phone. He dialed the number from memory and listened to the high pitched burr of the ring for a long time; not home, then, or maybe outside. Alright then. At least he wouldn’t have to try to disguise the tension in his voice. He stripped down to his boxers, poured another shot of bourbon and cradled the plastic cup in his hand while he flipped through a seemingly endless parade of banal channels on the television, his mind wandering. Not to Molly, though; the face he saw unbidden in his mind’s eye was made of cleanly carved planes and regal lines, amused eyes that sparked with the maroon color of dried blood. Lips moving over sharp teeth as words fell from that dangerous mouth with a rough sensuality. He realized vaguely that he was hard, achingly so; he tried almost desperately to call up Molly’s face, her body, and couldn’t do it. His senses were flooded with Hannibal. Conflicted and desperately aroused, he ran his palm roughly down the length of his cock; shuddering, he bit his lip and fought the sensation. Tried not to rut against his shaking hand while quickened breaths tore from his parted lips. 

With a low, frustrated cry, he rolled over in a heaving motion, burying his face in the pillow, his aching cock hot and heavy against his hip. When he had himself under control, he cursed himself roundly for thinking this had been a good idea, any of it. It was a long time before he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

While Will was in the midst of a troubled sleep, Dr. Frederick Chilton was comfortably ensconced in his office with his feet propped on the desk and a rather smug smile on his reconstructed face. While it had been moderately satisfying to have Lecter under his proverbial thumb for the past couple of years, public interest in him was still too high to allow him any vengeance beyond a level that could only be described as petty at best. He’d restrict his mail for a while, or take away his books or toilet seat, but none of the experimental therapy that could make Frederick Chilton a leading authority for dissecting the most fascinating (and to his view, eminently marketable) mind of the current day. No electroconvulsive therapy either. Ah well. 

Of course he’d recorded the conversation between Will Graham and Lecter earlier; he was certain they were both aware of it, neither of them were stupid enough to believe they had privacy. In fact, he’d obsessively recorded everything that had been said between Hannibal Lecter and any of his few visitors, hoping for an interesting tidbit. However, this one was of particular interest – if there was a chance of Lecter being transferred to a different facility, particularly a federal one, there was a number he was to call, for a substantial fee of course. Will Graham – another potential gold mine who had slipped from his grasp – might not have the juice to pull it off himself, but money makes the world go ‘round after all… and there was another party who shared his views regarding Hannibal Lecter, one with considerably more pull than either himself or Jack Crawford. All it would take is an excuse, and Will Graham had just unknowingly delivered it.

Savoring the taste of imminent vengeance, Chilton waited a moment before picking up the phone. He wasn’t terribly surprised when Alana Bloom was the one who answered it; she’d already been officially Mason Verger’s psychiatrist and unofficial advisor on Hannibal Lecter even before Chilton had become involved. She had been a party to the conversation regarding this eventuality, but Chilton had been the one to ask why Mason wanted Lecter in a state prison.

“Do you really want to know? It doesn’t fall under the Humane Slaughter Act,” had been the tittering response. It had pleased him mightily at the time.

“Hello Frederick,” said Alana. She was all business these days; he supposed being thrown out of a second story window by one’s erstwhile lover might do that to a person.

“Dr. Bloom,” greeted Chilton, hardly able to contain the smugness in his tone, “I’m calling with some good news. For all of us, I think.”

“Hold a moment while I take this in to Mason,” came the cool, feminine voice, after a brief pause. New, chilly Alana. She was all ice these days, though as lovely as ever, thought Chilton, a little covetously. There was an interval of seamless silence, and then he could hear murmured voices and knew that he was on the speaker phone.

“Dr. Chilton,” said Mason Verger from the ruined mask of his former face, sounding almost disturbingly cheerful, “Dr. Bloom tells me you have a piece of news for us – is it what I think it is?”

“It could be,” replied Chilton carefully, studying his fingernails, “but not without some work.”

“Tell me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Will flew back to Quantico the following morning, completely oblivious to the fact that wheels were already turning beyond his knowledge, setting things into motion that he was not quite prepared to deal with. He went directly from the airport to the BAU, rather rumpled in his new jacket that somehow already looked as though he had owned it for month; not having bothered to shave either, he presented something of an unkempt appearance walking into the rather depressing hallways toward Jack Crawford’s office, but couldn’t have cared less. He hadn’t slept well, and was out of sorts in a way he hadn’t been since he’d gotten off the hook for Randall Tier and taken the not-so-subtly offered early retirement. 

If Jack hadn’t happened to be right about Hannibal Lecter, he’d have been taking early retirement as well… as it was, when he’d recovered from his injuries, he had found his old job waiting for him. However, his taste for the chase had been rather dampened since Bella had passed away; he found that he cared less and less about it. Will, walking into his office like a storm cloud, only served to stir up long suppressed guilt for getting him in over his head with Lecter. Jack gestured for Will to take a seat on the other side of his desk, which he did. His eyes, no longer concealed by the glasses he’d once worn like a shield, met Jack’s directly for a moment before shifting to the scar on the side of his neck, still a dark welt above his shirt collar. 

“Mine doesn’t bleed anymore,” said the older agent, gruffly, “I hope you haven’t done anything to reopen yours.”

“Hannibal never tried to kill me,” pointed out Will, with a bitter quirk to his mouth.

“No, only to frame you for his murders,” replied Jack, a little more sharply than he had intended, “but I suppose you’ve forgiven him for that.”

“More than he is likely to have forgiven me,” muttered Will, his stomach twisting slightly. Hannibal only knew that Will had betrayed him; he had never had any way to know that Will would have given anything to take it back. Jack frowned.

“I take it then, that your request for whatever insight you think he might have was denied.”

“Not exactly,” said Will, slowly, “and I am positive that he knows something.”

“What does he want, then? Or is he still just… playing with his food?”

“He wants to be moved out of Chilton’s care and into a federal institution,” said Will flatly, “I assume the answer to that would be no.”

“You’re damn right it’s a no,” said Jack, brusquely, “the only federal institution I’d put Hannibal Lecter in is a solitary confinement cell at North Branch, and after a month in there, he’d be begging to return to Dr. Chilton’s care.”

“That won’t be happening,” came a crisp, female voice from behind Will. Jack looked over Will’s shoulder at the same time Will spun halfway around; Kade Prurnell stood in the doorway, lips pursed in thinly disguised disgust as her cold blue eyes drifted over Will as though he were a piece of excrement she’d just found on the sole of her pointy toed shoe. The feeling was mutual, and Will pointedly turned his back on her.

“Ms. Prurnell,” said Jack, gruffly. He stood up politely, but there was no warmth in his face.

“What can I can do for you?”

The slender blonde stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. Ignoring Will completely, she smoothed a casual hand over one pin-striped Givenchy sleeve and said,

“Lecter won’t be moving to North Branch – or remaining where he is, for that matter. I’m told that he has information that will lead us to your most recent, shall we say, challenge. It’s perfectly clear that your team has made no progress, or you wouldn’t be recruiting help from a disturbed retiree.”

“Where did you hear that he has information?” snapped Will, spinning to face her. The look on his face must have been alarming, since she took an involuntary half step backward. She recovered quickly, however, replying coldly,

“That does not concern you, Mr. Graham.” Switching her attention back to Jack, she went on,

“Congressman Vellmore has taken an interest in the matter; Lecter is being transferred to Maryland Correctional later this afternoon.”


	5. Chapter 5

Having delivered this piece of news, Kade Prurnell turned on one expensive heel and strode out of Jack Crawford’s office, pausing only once to add,

“Oh, and Jack? I advise you to keep your pet on a tighter leash, if you insist on having him here. Your so-called career could use all the help it can get.”

That barb delivered, the door closed behind her, leaving only a lingering scent of Guerlain in her wake.

“Jack, there is something very fucking wrong about this,” ground out Will, between clenched teeth, “I assume that Chilton must have been listening to my conversation with Hannibal, but who the hell did he call to pull this off? And why?”

“Chilton doesn’t have that kind of clout,” grunted Jack promptly, obviously still irked by Ms. Prurnell’s parting shot, judging by his thunderous expression. 

“No – and he would hardly be chomping at the bit to get Hannibal the Cannibal out from under his “care” – he’s already working on a second book, no doubt,” said Will, bitterly, 

“Besides, I think he likes him where he can see him. This move cost someone a chunk of cash.”

“If it cost enough to pay off a congressman, it came from someone with plenty of it,” mused Jack, absently stroking the gray streaked beard he’d cultivated since Will had seen him last.

“There’s only one reason someone would want to move Hannibal out of a secure psych ward and into Corrections’ jurisdiction – it’s easier to get him out – or to get to him. Unless it’s a supermax like North Branch – Maryland Correctional is a joke, he’ll murder ten inmates before bedtime if they put him in gen pop … and probably eat their livers in the cafeteria.”

“Why would anyone want to get Lecter out?” grumbled Jack, “except himself, anyway – we know he has money; he comes from some sort of European nobility as far as we could trace him back. Technically, we have Count Lecter in a glass cage. And some of his clients were very generous to him in their wills.”

“Didn’t do the families of his victims any good when they tried to sue,” said Will, quirking a brow.

“That’s because he hid the money - and he hid it good. We still haven’t been able to trace it.”

“I don’t think Hannibal is behind this,” said Will, his emotions a churning mix that threatened incipient heartburn, “but I imagine he is finding it … entertaining.”

“Well I don’t.”

“I need to know what he knows,” said Will, “I’ll be at Maryland Correctional as soon as they have him processed in.”

Driving to Maryland, it occurred to Will that there was only one person he could think of that would enjoy having Hannibal Lecter more accessible and that possessed both the money and influence to make it happen under the right circumstances. How difficult would it have been for Mason Verger to bribe Chilton for knowledge of those circumstances? His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white, nausea clenching sickly in his stomach. He had carried those circumstances with him from Marathon, Florida – when he had decided to visit Hannibal, and to ask for his help. Or just to see him again, a treacherous voice whispered inside his head. Okay, yes, maybe that too.


	6. Chapter 6

Will arrived in Jessup, Maryland a little earlier than he’d intended; it was a two hour drive up from Quantico, but he’d left plenty of time to get stuck in traffic through DC. His temporary FBI ID got him through the gates and into the lot, but a quick chat with a guard hanging around on a smoke break told him that Hannibal Lecter had yet to arrive, much less get processed. Apparently everyone from the warden on down was less than pleased about getting a prisoner foisted on them that belonged in an asylum, and the fact that it was the Chesapeake Ripper only made things worse. It made Will’s head hurt to imagine the level of money and influence that it must have taken to shove a legally insane mass murderer into the Jessup prison system. The guard cast a final curious look at the travel rumpled profiler, then ground out his cigarette butt under his shoe and went back inside. 

Will, not wanting to hang around the visitor’s area with its pall of tedium and despair, went back to his road dusty rental and sat inside with the heat running; he decided to call Molly while he waited.

“Will!” she exclaimed in his ear, “where are you? Is everything going alright?”

“I’m in Jessup, Maryland,” he said, dryly, “don’t ask me why, except that everything seems to be going off the rails as usual. How are you and Wally?”

“He’s got a new friend; little boy from that fishing shack up on Stirrup Key. They’ve been fishing all day. I feel an urge to check Wally for lice every time the kid leaves, is that bad?”

“Probably not.” Will’s attention drifted toward the road; there was an armored van approaching; it was still half a mile away but coming quickly.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ll be gone? No pressure… you’re doing the right thing. It’s just, Wally’s been asking.”

The truck was at the gates now, dust pluming from the tires.

“I have to go,” said Will, absently; he disconnected the call without waiting for a response, as the armored truck rolled between the manned gates and into the barbed wire enclosed yard. Watching from where he was, perhaps a hundred feet away, the silence was suddenly deafening except for the rumble of the truck. BSHCI was stenciled discreetly across the side. Hannibal, then. He’d been expecting a rush of prison guards to emerge from the building at the arrival of the new resident boogeyman, but only three figures came through the doors. Two were uniformed guards; the other wore a suit, seat-shiny and worn, and the brisk wind blew his jacket back from the yellowing shirt beneath. 

The older man, possibly the warden, gestured to the guards at his sides; they drew firearms that didn’t look like standard issue. What the hell was going on here? Will, who felt the weight of his own pistol acutely in the shoulder holster against his ribs, slipped his hand inside his jacket and unsnapped the strap over the butt of his gun. The back doors of the transport truck swung open and two uniformed BSHCI guards appeared between the open doors, greeting the waiting prison staff with obvious confusion at the lack of fanfare. Then came Hannibal; they had him trussed with cuffs encircling his wrists and ankles, joined by the long chain; his face was concealed from the cheekbones down, by the mask Chilton had made him wear whenever he stood in the same space as another breathing human. 

Given the way his ankles were restrained, he wouldn’t have been able to step down from the truck; however, before he could be hoisted out, the warden nodded subtly and the two prison guards pulled the triggers on their weapons. There was no noisy gunfire, however, just a pop that sounded like an air rifle; the transport vehicle guards went down, grasping at the tranquilizer darts protruding from their bodies. The driver remained oblivious for a moment, then leapt from the cab, drawing a firearm of his own, not sure whether the prisoner was trying to escape – for his part, Hannibal didn’t move; tall and elegant even in his chains, his eyes flickered sideways as Will burst out of his rental car, his own gun drawn, using the door for cover.

“Kill him!” shouted the warden, spotting Will’s movement quickly and identifying him as a possible witness. Even Verger’s money couldn’t buy them out of that. The guards turned, dropping the tranquilizer guns into the dust and went for their sidearms, just as the driver – catching onto the situation at least to some degree – put a round through the nearest prison guard’s shoulder. The blood spray caught Hannibal across the legs as the guard went down, firing, firing; the driver died with his face on the concrete, his gun lying useless beside his hand. Bullets poured into Will’s rental car; he came up, fired twice, and the second guard fell. Now he was on the move, crossing the chill courtyard, muzzle depressed, and the warden fled inside; already, Will knew, more were coming. Reaching the transport truck, he unceremoniously dragged the two BSHCI guards out onto the ground, leaving them unconscious, half on top of the groaning prison guards.

“Hello Will,” said Hannibal, as though they were standing in a garden party. It was impossible to read his expression behind the mask.

“Shut up Hannibal,” said Will, breathlessly. He gave him a shove backwards into the truck, slammed the rear doors and clambered into the cab just as the prison doors were opening to expel a stream of prison guards. Flooring the gas, the truck tore across the lot as gunfire peppered the back doors; the heavy vehicle slewed sideways, then they crashed through the gates and onto the road, leaving devastation in their wake.


	7. Chapter 7

Knowing that very soon, they’d be pursued by god only knows how many cops and prison personnel, Will scanned the sides of the road desperately for a turn off. While he had interrupted what was obviously a paid-off snatch, the warden was hardly likely to spin that tale – they were fugitives for the time being, until he could figure out what to do and get in touch with Jack. Of course he’d left his cell phone in the rental car when all hell broke loose at the prison. He was also not eager to return Hannibal to a facility where he’d almost certainly end up murdered; not that he didn’t deserve it for all the damage he’d caused, but his mind recoiled at the idea and he deliberately did not examine that, at least not for now – he needed to focus. 

The faint scream of sirens carried on the air now; not close, but catching up.

“Fuck,” muttered the profiler under his breath. Abruptly, he hit the brakes, slowing the armored truck almost to a halt; there was a gap between the trees, with a rutted road beyond. He’d almost missed it with the thick carpet of leaves on the ground. He just hoped the damn truck wouldn’t get stuck. It didn’t – but it was a rough ride, and he thought a little guiltily of Hannibal stuck in the back with his wrists and ankles shackled. The road, such as it was, seemed to lead quite deeply into the woods, but Will wasn’t familiar enough with the area to know whether it would lead to houses, campgrounds, or another road. Once he deemed that they’d put a fair bit of distance behind them (and he could no longer hear sirens), he stopped the truck in a stand of pines, off to the side of the road. His nerves were still on edge, this was by no means a safe spot and the armored truck was hardly inconspicuous – especially on a dirt road like this one - but he needed to check on Hannibal and decide what to do next. 

He climbed down from the cab into the brisk wind, taking the keys with him and headed quickly around to the back of the truck. The doors opened on the dimly lit space; he didn’t see Hannibal at first, and then realized he was crouched like a feline beside the back doors and they were almost on eye level with each other. The cold winter light caught his features, all angles and cheekbones and paler than Will remembered; it took a moment to realize that he was no longer wearing the mask. It was strange to see him in the daylight now; his unusual maroon colored eyes sparked redly as he regarded Will intently for a long beat. Will forgot to breathe for a moment; Hannibal stepped out of the truck, lithe as a cat and no longer fettered by the chains and shackles.

Will took a wary step backward, acutely aware that he had left his gun in the cab of the truck, expecting Hannibal to still be restrained and not at all sure of his intentions.

“Do you intend to return me to a prison cell, Will?” asked Hannibal, the timbre of his voice sending an acute shiver down Will’s spine.

“Right now, all I intend to do is get us away from here before we are ‘unfortunately killed being taken into custody’,” ground out Will, with an effort, “or is that what you want?”

Quick as a striking snake, before Will could begin to react, Hannibal came forward, pressed full length against him as the profiler’s back collided with the unforgiving bark of the nearest tree. Pinned in place with Hannibal’s weight hot and firm against him, Will struggled to shove him backward without success; however, part of him had no interest in struggling at all, a treacherous erection swelling at the close proximity. Hannibal lowered his face into the hollow of Will’s throat and breathed in the undistilled scent of his skin, his breath hot against Will’s neck and making him shudder despite the pure danger that seemed to taint the air around them. Despite the cold, Will's face wore a slight flush, his pulse racing.

Into the shell of Will’s ear, Hannibal spoke roughly, his voice laced with pain,

“I let you know me – see me.”

He drew back to look into Will’s stormy blue eyes, drinking in the keen sharpness of conflict he found there, the pupils blown wide with arousal and emotion. 

“I gave you a rare gift – but you didn’t want it.”

“Didn’t I?” Laced with bitterness and the regret he’d tried not to let himself become consumed with, Will’s words were biting. Hannibal lifted a hand and laid a possessive palm over the side of Will’s jaw; Will leaned unthinkingly into the touch like a flower turns toward the sun. Then, he felt the sting of a needle in the other side of his neck. He grasped Hannibal’s shoulder, his vision already failing – before all turned to black, the last thing he saw was the deep maroon of Hannibal’s eyes, still lingering on his face.


	8. Chapter 8

Awareness returned in stages; the first thing Will was aware of was that he was warm, comfortably so. He was lying somewhere soft, and the faint crackle of flames came to him; when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a hearth alive with the warm orange glow of a well banked fire. He sat up abruptly, groaning a little as his head spun and he looked swiftly around, trying to get his bearings. He was still fully dressed, except for his shoes and jacket, and a survey of his surroundings told him that he was in a luxuriously appointed room with dark paneled walls and gleaming hardwood floors, a thick Aubusson rug springy under his feet. A late eighteenth century Flemish harpsichord stood in the corner, and beyond it, through the French doors, the bay lay silvery under the moon and moving shadows of the clouds. He smelled a faint hint of salt air; a breeze from the cracked door. 

Feeling a little surreal and outside of himself, Will got to his feet just as Hannibal stepped inside through the French doors and placed a glass of wine silently on a candle stand behind the harpsichord. There was no sign of his prison jumpsuit now; the man who’d been termed “monster” for lack of a better description by befuddled psychiatrists, was dressed casually in slacks and a white button down shirt, the sleeves rolled back to expose scarred forearms.

“Waking… waking calm, waking in a pleasant room,” said Dr. Lecter, mildly inquisitive in tone as though he was curious about Will’s mental state. 

“Where are we?” asked Will, a little hoarsely.

“Suspended over the roiling Atlantic,” replied Hannibal, shifting his gaze briefly toward the tall windows before it settles back upon Will with a palpable weight, “the bluff is eroding… soon, all of this will be lost to the sea.”

Will crossed the floor, drawn by the distant crash of waves, and stood at the doors looking out into the darkness of the Chesapeake Bay. Distantly, he considered whether Hannibal was likely to harm him and dismissed the thought; he’d had ample opportunity to do so by now. It occurred to him that Hannibal had almost certainly used the medical supplies in the back of the transport to render him unconscious so that he wouldn’t know the way to … wherever this was. He could hardly blame him, given his less than stellar record of trust. It was, he thought, just like Hannibal to have a hiding place outfitted like this ready and waiting at the opportune moment. A cold glass of water was pressed into his hand.

“You must be thirsty,” observed Dr. Lecter from his shoulder. Will was. He drank thirstily, emptying the glass in seconds, and felt better.

“Any news?” inquired Will, dreading to know the answer; a pang of guilt twisted through him as he thought of Molly. She’d have been notified now that he was missing with Hannibal Lecter.

“The official narrative seems to be that you used your temporary FBI badge to get inside the prison grounds, interrupted the transfer, killed two prison guards and three BSHCI guards before absconding with me in the transport truck… which incidentally, was only found an hour ago.”

“Lying bastards,” said Will, his eyes narrowing, “and two of those BSHCI guards were alive when we left,”

“It seems someone thought they might have seen too much,” observed Hannibal. He paused for a moment, then said,

“Come, Will – you need something to eat.”

Meanwhile, at Muskrat Farm…

Frederick Chilton was pacing erratically with his cane back and forth across the floor of Mason’s study. Alana, looking much more cool and collected than she felt, was perched on the edge of a large desk, her tailored red skirt riding up slightly. Normally, Chilton would have been much more interested in that view, but he was currently in a state of panic.

“They could be anywhere!” he exclaimed, “I need police protection, wait – better that you send bodyguards. They could be in my apartment right now as we speak, waiting to kill me!”

“We hadn’t counted on Will Graham seeing the snatch,” agreed Alana, looking distinctly troubled now. Despite her desire for vengeance against Dr. Lecter, she still cared about Will, and had been thoroughly disgusted with Jack Crawford for pulling him out of a stable home in Florida to chase the latest psycho.

“Well, he not only saw it, he appropriated it, Dr. Bloom – assuming Lecter didn’t kill him, they seem to have gotten away clean.”

“They’ll be caught, Frederick – there is a massive manhunt underway as we speak. If he could be gotten to before, it can be done again. Nobody knows this was anything other than a disturbed FBI agent with a questionable history with Lecter, finally snapping.”

“One person knows, Dr. Bloom. What will we do if Will Graham is alive and manages to get in touch with Jack Crawford, hm?”

Just then, Mason was wheeled into the room, looking as furious as a person with no face is capable of looking. His eyes blazed. Cordell was being prudently silent as he halted the wheelchair in the middle of the room.

“We need them both, and we need them now, and we need them dead,” Mason spat, “but meanwhile, we can make sure that nobody will believe a word Graham or Crawford have to say. Get me Prurnell on the phone.”


	9. Chapter 9

While Hannibal would no doubt have loved to prepare something extravagant for supper with his signature panache (and probably Dr. Chilton’s liver), he hadn’t had the opportunity to complete his batterie de cuisine here yet, nor was he properly equipped with a fresh array of food. He had managed to obtain a few things in an out of the way shop while Will was asleep in their appropriated new vehicle (a primer gray truck with a winch in the back, the last thing anyone who knew Lecter would expect him to drive). While Will sat at the counter in the spacious kitchen, Hannibal was sweating shallots for a beurre blanc sauce. After the prison food, it would be nothing short of divine and he inhaled the fragrant shallots with visible pleasure.

“Reminds me of when you used to cook for me in Baltimore,” said Will. He had found the liquor cabinet and helped himself to a glass of Macallan single malt, which he was currently sipping. A queer nostalgia settled into his chest along with the smooth warmth of the good scotch.

“I had a far more adequately stocked kitchen in Baltimore,” said Hannibal, lowering the gas flame with a gentle touch, “but I believe this will serve until it can be improved upon.”

Will watched the play of lean muscle in the doctor’s back as he worked for a moment, the stretch of fine fabric across his broad shoulders. He’d never been particularly attracted to men before, had always considered himself essentially straight… but Hannibal Lecter made him feel a lot of things he’d never expected to. In this moment, he felt a twinge of dizzying attraction and wondered how things had spiraled so far out of control since he’d gotten out of bed that morning.

“I think it was Mason Verger who paid to have you grabbed at the prison,” he said, abruptly.

“I should imagine so,” agreed Hannibal, adding heavy cream to the saucepan, “certainly he can afford it, and he does bear something of a grudge against me after he fed his face to your dogs.”

“He probably has Chilton on his payroll,” said Will, with a slight moue of dislike at the memory of his own time in the BSHCI, “and God knows who else – it was Congressman Vellmore who pulled the strings to have you moved, with the help of Ms. Prurnell at the BAU of course.”

“I suppose that I ought to be flattered.” Dr. Lecter sounded amused by this. While the sauce simmered, he was searing halibut and the smell made Will’s mouth water; he hadn’t eaten anything since the complimentary stale Danish offered by the hotel.

“Have you considered, Will, that he will now be intent upon murdering not only myself, but you as well?”

“Of course I have,” said Will, staring down into the amber liquid in its crystal tumbler, “I’m the only one alive now who knows what actually happened. But I suspect killing me would have been a bonus all along for him – he was going to feed me to his pigs after all.”

Hannibal was plating the meals with his usual easy elegance; it was almost possible to forget all of the painful history between them for the duration of that meal. They discussed practicalities, sipping Ramonet Montrachet Grand Cru in Hannibal’s wide rimmed Riedel crystal glasses. After dinner, they silently cleared the dishes and Hannibal tidied up the kitchen with characteristic ingrained tidiness.

Will stood against the counter, scotch in hand, and when he spoke again, he didn’t know what was going to tumble from his mouth until it did.

“Is this what you wanted?” he said, “in Baltimore – before Jack and Alana – “

Hannibal stopped what he was doing and faced Will, giving him the full weight of his attention.

“Jack and Alana were doing as they believed to be right,” he said, a dangerous edge to his voice, “it was you, Will, who insisted upon carrying the charade to its conclusion.”

“I changed my mind – that night, I tried to call you. I was arrested,” said Will, bitterly, “for Tier.”

“I almost killed you today,” said Hannibal, bluntly, “when I saw you before me, breathing the same air for the first time since our final supper.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Perhaps because the world is a more interesting place with you in it,” said Hannibal, drawing nearer with the innate grace of a predator, “my compassion for you is inconvenient, Will.”

“If you’re partial to beef products, it’s inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow,” Will retorted, putting his glass down. Then Hannibal stepped into his space, crowding him against the counter; he felt the edge pressing against his backside.

“You like cornering me,” observed Will, edgily, “a cornered animal is likely to bite.”

“Or to be bitten,” growled Hannibal softly, spreading the span of his hand across Will’s collarbones and nuzzling the side of his neck. A small sound escaped Will’s lips; he didn’t move, didn’t breathe; then he felt the brush of a hot mouth against his skin, and the sudden nip of sharp teeth in the place where his shoulder and neck joined. Will’s hands came up, began to grasp Hannibal’s upper arms, and were seized in a strong grip and pinioned to the counter while Dr. Lecter drank his fill of the younger man’s scent; a swipe of his hot tongue over Will’s skin, and then Hannibal stepped back a fraction, holding the taste of Will in his mouth and savoring it as he’d savored the fine Chardonnay.


	10. Chapter 10

As Hannibal moved back enough for Will to feel a fleeting sense of loss, his maroon eyes held Will whole for a heartbeat. With a jolt that went straight to his groin, Will realized that Hannibal was just as affected as he was – Dr. Lecter’s infamously steady pulse was elevated and the black void of his pupils swallowed the redly reflective irises nearly whole.

“Hannibal,” he breathed, a soft plea carried on a shaky exhalation, “please…”

“Beautiful boy,” murmured Dr, Lecter, “you’d tempt a pantheon of saints to deny Christ as he bled out for oblivious sinners.”

“You’re no saint,” said Will, widening his stance in a deliberate provocation that had Hannibal advancing between his lean legs with predatory assurance. Feeling the solid heat of Hannibal’s weight settle there like something that had always been meant, his cock swelled until it was almost painful trapped within his trousers, and he rutted involuntarily against the long thigh pressed firmly against his groin.

“And you are no Christ, Will – the cross you willingly nail yourself against is not martyrdom.” Will drew a shuddering breath, as the thick, hot weight of the older man’s erection nudged his hip. Hannibal closed the distance between them at last, the mouth that had torn through human flesh and left a trail of bodies and destructive words in its wake, settled over Will’s; it was not a gentle kiss, it was a claiming – Will parted his lips gladly and it became an insistent, sensual slide of tongues and lips. He lifted his hands and grasped Hannibal’s shirtsleeves roughly, earning himself a sharp nip to his lower lip that drew blood; the faint taste of copper mingled with good scotch and a low moan vibrated Will’s chest. Hannibal lowered his head to nudge his jaw aside and Will bared his throat willingly, the recklessness of what he was doing burning in his veins like a low grade fever.

“Though you may judge yourself with all the mercy of the dungeon scales at Threave … I must warn you that mercy has no place at my table,” murmured Hannibal against his vulnerable neck, feeling the pulse thrumming desperately beneath his mouth; the part of him that still raged against Will for his betrayal wanted to tear open that pale flesh and feel the arterial spray hot against his face – he supposed it always would. Instead, he bit down hard, sharp incisors scraping mercilessly into the expanse of skin so willingly offered, and mouthed cruelly at the center of the wound, filling his mouth with the taste of salt and blood and something else that was just uniquely Will. It was intoxicating. Will cried out, wanton under his mouth and harder than he’d ever been, the sharpness of the pain mingling with the maddening friction of Hannibal’s firm thigh against his erection.

Dr. Lecter drew back and inhaled the heavy scent of arousal that Will exuded, his eyes half lidded. After the long years of being confined to a glass cage, it took every ounce of self-control that he possessed not to simply throw the younger man to the ground and ravage him; to push every thought and memory of Will’s sham of a marriage out of his head forever and claim him in every way from the inside out. The livid purple mark on Will’s neck that was still trickling a slow stream of blood into his collar was a testament to the temptation he fought; it wouldn’t be able to be hidden. Instinct told him that he could do as he wished with Will physically right now, but it was too soon. The wedding ring on the hand Will currently had curled around his shoulder was a reminder of the fact, even though it was apparent that it was furthest thing from Will’s mind currently.

Will was a beautifully quivering mess of arousal and this much was irresistible; Hannibal reached between them and with expert dexterity, flicked the button of Will’s jeans open and roughly yanked the zipper down.

“Let me,” he said, the heavy rasp of lust palpable in his own voice.

“God, please – “ gasped Will, shamelessly giving him access as Dr. Lecter reached into his boxers and freed his cock, taking him firmly in hand; he was so hard it nearly hurt, reddened and slick at the tip. Hannibal, stroking his length with expert precision, watched Will’s face possessively as he lost himself to pleasure; swiping his palm across the sensitive tip to gather the welling slippery fluid and spreading it over the shaft in firm strokes that made Will’s knees quiver and threaten to give out. Will was drawing gasping breaths now, his pink lips parted in excruciating pleasure that made Hannibal want to do so much more to him; his thighs trembled as the expert hand worked his flesh faster, and then his cock was jerking convulsively - the orgasm hit him like a freight train, sweeping from the tips of his toes and the top of his head like a hot tidal wave. He cried out in a moaning sob of relief, thick semen coating Hannibal’s hand and painting the front of his trousers with white spurts. 

Hannibal held Will as he collapsed bonelessly into his arms, shaken and coming back to himself slowly. After the younger man regained his feet, Dr. Lecter led him to the living room and retreated briefly to the kitchen to clean himself up and collect his own composure. He returned with a refill of Will’s scotch and a drink for himself – Lillet with a slice of orange - and retreated to the harpsichord, giving him space. Will surprised him after a moment, speaking softly into the quiet,

“Would you play something?”

Hannibal hummed his acquiescence.

“Of course.”

Not oblivious to Will staring contemplatively at his wedding ring as he sipped his scotch, Dr. Lecter began to play “If Love Now Reigned” by Henry VIII with his clever surgeon’s hands, still delightfully scented with Will.


	11. Chapter 11

Mason and Alana now, sitting across from each other in Mason’s study with the skull of Fleet Shadow ominously hanging overhead – the only winning horse Mason’s father had owned, he’d been too cheap to have him stuffed. The empty eyeholes observed impassively as Margot joined them, edgily perched upon the arm of a chair, not at ease enough to make herself comfortable. Cordell lingered like a tumorous shadow around Mason’s chair, ready to attend to any requests and missing nothing.

“We need to know whether Will Graham is alive or not,” said Dr. Bloom, no trace now of her former gentle warmth. Her red lipstick was a slash of color against her cold white skin.

“If Lecter has him, he’s probably as good as dead,” huffed Mason, his shock of blonde hair falling across the scarred horror of his forehead.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Alana replied, “their relationship has always been … unusual.”

“Unusual how? Even if they were fucking like rabbits, Graham got Lecter put away,” retorted Mason, deliberately vulgar. It amused him to see Alana’s lips purse with disapproval.

“I didn’t mean sexually,” she said frostily, “there’s never been any indication that either of them are homosexual.”

“Well, you and Margot ought to know,” drawled Mason, suggestively, “after all … you’ve had one each.”

“Mason,” said Margot, in a tone of irritated warning that did nothing but amuse Mason.

“They have to come out of hiding at some point,” said Alana, “or at least Will does - he has a family, he’s not going to just leave them to run away with Hannibal Lecter.”

“Mr. Graham is going to come to us because we have the prime bait,” said Mason, perking up visibly, “if he’s alive. And if that’s the case, Lecter will be with him.”

“If you’re referring to Will’s wife and stepchild, I am absolutely not participating in harming them,” said Alana, flatly.

“Of course not,” said Mason, disturbingly cheerful, “on a related note, I think it’s time for Jack Crawford to go… and the means to do it is already on the payroll.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how cheaply people will sell their souls,” snarked Margot from the corner.

“That’s because you’ve never lacked for money, Margot,” said Mason, comfortably, “I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?”

He looked down at the personnel folder on the desk in front of him; it was open to the page with Will Graham’s home address on it.

“What is it that you want me to do?” inquired Alana, businesslike.

“I want to talk to Chilton. It seems that the Tooth Fairy sent Lecter a fan letter that arrived just after he was moved. Get him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and get him over here with that letter.”


	12. Chapter 12

By the time Hannibal had finished the piece he was playing, Will had fallen asleep on the settee, the finely wrought bones of his face limned in gold by the dying firelight. Dr. Lecter, relishing the moment to observe while being unobserved, drank in the sight of him from across the room; he would have very much liked to draw him like this, the cares washed away from his face by exhaustion and satisfaction, curled up and content as he had ever been, however fleeting it might be. It was late, though, and it had been an eventful day; perhaps another time. Will, asleep in the firelight, would occupy a room in his memory palace that he could visit whenever he wished.

He stood and crossed the room silently, draping a dove gray cashmere blanket over Will’s sleeping form, and retired to the armchair with his tablet to check the news. Will murmured something in his sleep and burrowed further under the soft blanket, his fist curled loosely under his chin. Hannibal logged into Tattlecrime, unsurprised to find that his own face, juxtaposed with a shot of Will looking particularly angry (no doubt at Freddie’s camera being aimed in his direction), were at the top of the page, with the screaming headline “Rogue FBI Retiree Frees Cannibal”. Hannibal internally rolled his eyes at what passed for wit from Freddie Lounds. Her byline nagged at him as always, bringing back the memory of the gut wrenching realization that Will had been playing him for a fool all along. His eyes drifted instinctively over to Will’s relaxed form by the fire, his taut expression warming slightly. He read on.

“In a shocking turn of events today, former Special Agent Will Graham – who was forced into early retirement amidst allegations of murder and mutilation – used a temporary FBI badge to gain access to a Federal correctional facility. Once inside, he slaughtered five men and hijacked an armored transport vehicle, in order to free his former friend and psychiatrist, the infamous serial killer Hannibal “the Cannibal” Lecter. The whereabouts of the two killers remain unknown at this time, and this reporter cautions anyone in the area NOT to approach these men, as they are considered armed and extremely dangerous… “ There followed a tedious laundry list of his crimes, both those he had been convicted of and the ones he’d only been suspected of, a blurb from Frederick Chilton’s appalling book about him, some very unflattering speculations about Will’s sanity, and the obligatory pictures of the five murdered guards with a few children and dog pictures thrown in for good measure. Warden Brown had granted an interview with Ms. Lounds as well. He could be quoted somberly as saying,

“These were good men, men I had worked with for years. Will Graham is unstable – and a murderer. I look forward to justice taking its course, swiftly and without mercy for these two monsters.”

“Very rude of you, Mr. Brown,” murmured Hannibal, pausing his scrolling to peruse a picture of the man they’d last seen fleeing inside the prison after ordering his men to kill Will. Behind his top lip, his tongue ran pensively over sharp teeth.

Will was stirring; he sat up sleepily, but didn’t show any sign of having forgotten where he was. Half lidded blue eyes lifted to meet Hannibal’s and then looked down again, a slight flush creeping up his cheeks. The purpling bite wound on his neck looked nearly black in the firelight. 

“It’s late, Will… there’s a comfortable guest room just there, you should rest.” 

Will paused, the soft blanket pooled around his waist, and said,

“Aren’t we going to talk about what comes next?”

“Not tonight – we are perfectly safe here.”

“I need to call Molly – she will have heard the news by now, god knows what the hell she’s thinking.”

Hannibal tensed a fraction, and then said,

“Your telephone will be tapped by now – they will be waiting for you to call.” He paused, and then added, with a raised brow,

“What would you tell her, Will?”

The younger man’s cheeks darkened a fraction and he lifted a hand unconsciously to the mark on his neck. He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said,

“I don’t know. Fuck. Maybe just that you haven’t murdered me and that the news is wrong about what happened. It doesn’t matter – you’re right, they’ll have the place wired by now. She’s probably safer without me there anyway.”

“Undoubtedly true,” agreed Hannibal, putting the tablet on the table beside him as Will stood and ran a distracted hand through his disheveled hair.

“Is this your house?” asked Will, “or am I going to stumble across any bodies stashed in the closet?”

“I bought it several years ago from a German lobbyist,” replied Hannibal, amusement touching his features briefly, “you needn’t worry about finding a fresh corpse under the bed.”

“That’s a relief,” mumbled Will, “goodnight, Dr. Lecter.”


	13. Chapter 13

It was early the following day when Jack Crawford was summoned to a small meeting room at Quantico; he hadn’t slept since Will had disappeared with Hannibal Lecter and it showed – he looked haggard, though he was neatly groomed. His broad shoulders sloped in a defeated manner that suggested he expected nothing good to come of this meeting, the request (if one could call it such) being initiated by Deputy Assistant Prurnell first thing in the morning.

When he opened the door, he found Kade Prurnell at the table, dressed to kill in a tailored navy suit; not at the head of it, though – Noonan, the A/DIC over the investigation division had pride of place, though he looked as though he lacked enthusiasm for the proceedings. Also present was the mayor’s assistant, Benny Holcomb, and Larkin Wrainwright from the Office of Professional Responsibility.

“Jack – thank you for coming. Please have a seat,” said Noonan, gesturing formally toward the chair closest to him. Jack stared at him for a beat; they’d known each other a long time. Finally, he sat.

“In the matter of former Special Agent William Graham,” said the director, “you were responsible for pulling him from retirement – against the advice of your superiors – and as a result, we have a serial killer escaped from prison.”

“Hannibal Lecter did not escape from prison because of Will Graham,” said Jack, an undertone of anger in his voice, “Hannibal Lecter escaped because of an ill-advised transfer to a less secure facility.”

“The transfer would have been perfectly successful if your so-called agent hadn’t intervened,” interjected Kade Prurnell, her mouth pursing with ill-concealed distaste, “now five men are dead, and no doubt more will be killed before those two men can be brought into custody.”

“There were bullet holes in Agent Graham’s rental vehicle,” snapped Jack, “he was shot at – he didn’t simply go in shooting.”

“According to a reliable eye witness, Warden Brown, your man shot first,” interrupted Noonan,” I have no reason to doubt his account.”

“What about security footage?”

“There was an outage – it’s common in that part of the state.”

“Don’t you find that convenient?” snorted Jack.

“I don’t find any of this convenient,” said Noonan, sternly. 

“You didn’t want to leave after Bella died, Jack – wanted to stay busy. I think it’s time you took your pension and got out; maybe your judgment isn’t as sound as it used to be, we’d understand that.”

“Can I say something? I think I’m entitled,” said Jack. 

“Go ahead.”

“I think this is a setup. I think someone here is being paid to vilify Agent Graham, and I think that evidence is being deliberately overlooked. You people screwed up and now a man I asked for help after his life was damn near ruined already is missing with a known killer, maybe already dead. You expect me to turn my face from that?”

“You have no choice,” said Noonan. Taking a breath, he swung the axe.

“Special Agent Jack Crawford, you are hereby placed in mandatory retirement status. Hand over your badge and card key, and surrender your gun and any other FBI equipment in your possession to the marshal just outside this room. He’ll walk you out.”

Crawford stood and looked across the table at Noonan for a long moment. Then, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his badge and access key and threw them onto the table before stalking out in disgust. After being escorted out of the building, he took a single look back at the impassive marshal with his hands full of his equipment, and then headed down the steps. Freddie Lounds appeared from behind his car like a malign jack in the box, mini camera in her hand, brazenly approaching him.

“Would you like to make any comments for my readers about being fired from the FBI?” she inquired, sweetly, “I assume it didn’t go over too well that you let Will Graham out of his box and now he’s on the run with Hannibal Lecter. What is it with those two anyway?”

“Get out of my face, Freddie,” Jack growled, “who tipped you off anyway?”

“You know I have to protect my sources,” she said, stepping back just in time to avoid getting plowed over by Crawford, “so you did get fired, sorry to hear that – what effect do you think this will have on the hunt for Hannibal Lecter? Do you think he’ll come after you?”

“With any luck,” said Jack, climbing behind the wheel of his SUV, “he’ll come after you first.”

With that, he slammed the door and sprayed Freddie’s coat and boots with icy slush as he sped off.

*

Will found out over lunch about Crawford’s forced retirement from the FBI; he’d slept in the guest room of Hannibal’s carefully feathered fugitive nest better than he had expected under the circumstances. After a satisfying hot shower (though putting on his own clothes from the day before was less than pleasant), he wandered into the kitchen to discover Hannibal there – cooking, of course. Undoubtedly he was making up for lost time, even without a fully stocked kitchen. It was still odd for Will to see him so close, unfettered in a room with watery sunlight pouring in through the windows. The waves crashed distantly against the rocks below, a soothing sound from the bluff and muted by the windows, vast expanses of glass to appreciate the stunning view. A fleeting thought of Molly, probably beside herself with worry, clenched his gut with guilt, and yet a sense of rightness and belonging counterbalanced it; he thought of Hannibal’s hands on him, his sharp, possessive teeth, and the fine hairs on his forearms rose involuntarily.

“You could have worn something of mine,” said Dr. Lecter, without turning around, “I realize that the sizing would not be perfect, but it would have been more comfortable than yesterday’s clothing.” Will surreptitiously sniffed his sleeve, having forgotten about Hannibal’s keen sense of smell and hoping he didn’t stink too much.

“Didn’t think of it,” he said, a little awkwardly, “what are we having?”

“Alevropita,” replied Hannibal, sliding a rimmed baking sheet into the oven and standing to look at Will, brushing his hands idly against the apron he wore tied around his lean waist.

“A simple egg batter with feta cheese and herbs… from the Epirus region in northwestern Greece,” he elaborated.

“So cheese on toast?” inquired Will, quirking a brow. Hannibal gave him a look of fond irritation.

“Not quite,” he said, “would you like coffee?”

It was all so domesticated that Will barely knew what to say; finally, he just nodded. Naturally, Hannibal owned a French press, thought Will, his eyes drawn to the older man’s hands as they deftly worked, god forbid he should have a plain old Mr. Coffee. He discovered that it was difficult to watch Hannibal’s hands when he was doing anything at all without imagining what they could be doing to him; it was a disconcerting experience, unprecedented for Will, and he turned his attention to the tablet Hannibal had left lying on the counter.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” replied Hannibal, courteously. When Will powered it on, a few swipes took him to the Tattlecrime site; the headline now read,

“FBI Section Chief Given the Boot over Escaped Killers.” A picture of Jack exiting the building at Quantico with the marshal behind him holding his gun and tactical vest made for a dramatic shot.

Hannibal placed a tall, steaming mug of coffee in front of Will from just over his shoulder. Will felt the coiled tension of him at his back, and his warmth through the clothes they both wore; he forgot to take his next breath. Reading over his shoulder, Dr. Lecter said,

“It would seem that Jack is in bad odor with the FBI.”

“I wonder who told Freddie Lounds where to be and when,” said Will, contemplatively. He sipped his coffee and leaned on the counter with his elbow, Dr. Lecter’s warm weight at his back as they both read the article.


	14. Chapter 14

“This has setup written all over it,” said Will, eyeing Freddie’s shot of Jack leaving the FBI building. 

“Calling Jack off the scent opens the door for a different hound to lead the chase,” observed Dr. Lecter, his breath warm against the side of Will’s neck. The bruise there was a faint throb that Will felt radiating into his bloodstream, carrying Hannibal’s claim through his body; he fancied he could feel him in every vein now, and the thought was both unsettling and satisfying in equal measures. Hannibal inhaled the metallic scent of dried blood from Will’s collar, savoring the coppery tang before breathing it out again.

“I think we know which hound would like to take over the pursuit,” said Will, a little breathless. It was difficult to think clearly with Hannibal pressed along his back as though this had always been between them. Probably, he thought, it had. He wondered whether Hannibal had even known for sure, until they were face to face again. The guilt he felt for what Molly was going through right now was precisely that. Their life together had been sweet, uncomplicated – but even if it wasn’t for the danger he’d be putting her in, it was difficult to imagine returning to it. He’d spoken the truth when he had told her that if he left with Jack, he wouldn’t be the same person afterwards; it hadn’t occurred to him at the time that he had never been the person she thought he was. And Wally… if he knew even half of what he’d held back from the two of them, he wouldn’t want him within a mile of his mother. The only person who had ever known and wanted all of him was here, and the conflict he felt about that – the same person who had killed Abigail, framed him for murder, and that he himself had betrayed in turn – was beginning to blur, a twisted part of what bound them together. 

The oven timer went off with a ding, derailing his train of thought. Hannibal lingered just long enough to graze a kiss across his bruised neck, and then went to rescue his creation from the oven. 

The aroma of herbs and fresh baked bread and cheese filled the kitchen, the furthest thing from the stench of the mental wards. Dr. Lecter left it to cool for a moment, returning his attention to their discussion; this time from the other side of the counter.

“They’ll be setting the snare soon,” he said. Will nodded.

“There’s no way Mason is going to be willing to wait until we are located by the authorities,” he agreed, “he’s too used to getting his own way exactly when he wants it. He was ready for you and his men failed to deliver. He won’t be interested in you getting caught a second time.”

“I have no intention of being caught a second time,” replied Hannibal, looking into Will’s face. In the cold light from the Chesapeake bay, his eyes were the color of claret; it is not a common color found in nature and only contributed to his captors’ opinion of him as something Other than human. 

“What do you intend, Will?” he inquired, the underlying danger in his tone unmistakable. The sudden tension was palpable. Will placed the tablet flat on the counter and looked at him levelly.

“I have no intention of you being caught a second time either,” he said. His eyebrows lifted a fraction as his blue-green eyes held Dr. Lecter’s gaze. The monster looked into his eyes and smiled. He turned away without further comment, and began to plate their lunch, pouring freshly squeezed tangerine juice from a crystal pitcher into two deep glasses and placing them on the table by the window.

“We could just leave now, tonight,” said Will, consciously echoing what Hannibal had said to him three years ago.

“Almost polite,” murmured Hannibal, evidently recalling the same conversation. His mouth tightened a fraction as he turned and crossed the kitchen toward Will, the food forgotten for the moment by both of them.

“I should have gone with you then,” said Will, his tone laced with bitterness, and after a brief hesitation, added,

“I didn’t want you to find out about Freddie Lounds in that courtroom.”

“I knew when I asked you to leave with me,” said Dr. Lecter, “the night that you chose the truth… and all of its consequences.” Will’s eyes widened a fraction, his head tilting as Hannibal’s words registered fully.

“Why didn’t you just leave?” he said, his voice catching.

“I couldn’t leave without you,” said Hannibal, the low rasp of his Lithuanian accent making the simple admission sound somehow almost as exotic as the meaning of it. Will came uncertainly around the counter then, and placed a hand flat over Dr. Lecter’s heart; he felt its steady beat in his palm and said,

“We’re here now.” He tilted his chin up, and Hannibal’s hand caught the side of his waist, pulling him in with a handful of the fabric of his shirt. Will’s lips parted pliantly as Hannibal brought their mouths together in a searing kiss, and this time it was an exploration, not an assertion of dominance; it was tantalizingly slow and thorough, and the world shrank to their shared breath and the growing heat between them. Hannibal’s free hand settled over Will’s hip, and pulled him in flush against his front, drawing a needy, breathless moan from Will that would have embarrassed him if he wasn’t so aroused. He could feel the older man’s erection pushed heavily against him, and he was flooded with want, his own hands roaming the length of Hannibal’s back, running possessively over the solid, lean muscle there, so different from the yielding femininity he was accustomed to. He’d always had the uncomfortable sense that if he wasn’t careful, he might break Molly, damage her in some fundamental way; he could never break Hannibal.

Hannibal was the one to eventually draw back, and rest his forehead against Will’s; they were both breathless, bodies still molded together.

“We can’t leave tonight, as much as I am tempted,” he said, in a quiet, rough sigh, “I’m afraid that we have some business to attend to here first.”


	15. Chapter 15

“What business?” asked Will, his normally agile brain refusing to focus on anything but the solid heat of Hannibal’s close proximity; the murderously strong hands pulling him possessively close.

 

“An international manhunt I can manage,” murmured Hannibal, against his neck, “however, the Vergers are far better funded than the government agencies that would scramble after us.” 

 

“If we are to conclude our affairs here effectively, Mason Verger needs to be neutralized,” said Will, tilting his head back a fraction to give the older man better access to his neck, the fingers of his right hand tangling in the short hair at the nape of Hannibal’s neck and tugging reflexively. Dr. Lecter brought a steadying hand to the side of Will’s jaw then, and looked him in the face; the expression Will saw in his unusual colored eyes was almost reverent. It took him a moment to realize that he had effectively announced his intention to run away with Hannibal, and he exhaled a shaky breath as he inclined his head in acknowledgment.

 

“I can’t go back to pretending to live a normal life,” he said, the words harsh as they fell from his lips, “I feel like I’ve dreamed the last three years and now I’m awake.”

 

“Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart,” quoted Hannibal softly, holding Will’s storm blue gaze steadily, “and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

 

“Sleep felt safer at the time,” sighed Will, placing the palm of his hand flat upon Hannibal’s chest again and resting it there, seeking the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. Hannibal dropped his hand from Will’s face and folded it over the one lying over his heart.

 

*

 

Frederick Chilton had arrived at Muskrat Farm in the meantime, and was ushered into the parlor by Alana Bloom, carrying a thick file under one arm with his wool overcoat flapping around his ankles. Mason was waiting in his wheelchair, the mass of scar tissue that formed his face turned toward the door expectantly.

 

“Dr. Chilton, so glad you could make it,” he said.

 

“It is not as though I had much of a choice,” said Frederick, a little indignantly, “you did not have to send Dr. Bloom with two men to collect me.”

 

“You didn’t answer your phone,” replied Mason, not a bit apologetic, “did you bring what I asked for?”

 

“Yes, the letter from the Tooth Fairy and the copies of the case file notes from the folder Graham left with Lecter. I had to turn the original file back over to the FBI.”

 

“That’s fine, let’s have it then – give the letter to Cordell.” Chilton did as he was instructed and Cordell brought the envelope over to Mason, with its folded toilet paper stationary inside. Mason, already familiar with the “Avid Fan” letter that he considered basically one lunatic drooling over another one, didn’t bother to take it out.

 

“I want you to grant an interview to Ms. Lounds at Tattlecrime,” said Mason, returning his attention to Chilton.

 

“About what?”

 

“The psychological profile of the Tooth Fairy that Will Graham shared with you.”

 

“He never shared anything with me,” said Frederick, looking put out. Mason sighed and wondered if Chilton was smart enough to be of any use.

 

“Of course he didn’t, but nobody can prove that.”

 

“What am I supposed to say?” asked Chilton, not entirely averse to being in the limelight. Maybe a new book could be in the works after all.

 

“You’re the psychiatrist, you tell me,” said Mason, his eyes gleaming disconcertingly behind his spectacles, “something guaranteed to ruffle all the right feathers if you know what I mean.”


	16. Chapter 16

As night fell over the Chesapeake Bay, Will and Hannibal sat at the dining room table, each with a tumbler of 18 yr Macallan scotch, and a pile of cash and documents on the surface between them.

“So this is how you go on the run in style,” commented Will, dryly.

“The most essential part of a successful disappearance is a number of high quality alternate identities,” replied Hannibal, quite seriously, “but the cash certainly helps. I have maintained several versions of myself over the years – and all of them have excellent credit,” he added, with a hint of a smile.

“I’m curious,” said Will, swallowing a mouthful of scotch and enjoying the warmth it spread through his chest, “did you inherit all of this money?”

Dr. Lecter, finding the direct mention of it slightly distasteful in typical European fashion, nodded a fraction.

“There is still an estate near Vilnius. I have not been there for many years, though.”

“Will we go there?” inquired Will, intrigued.

“Perhaps one day,” said Hannibal, “when the wanted posters begin to fade.”

“They will never stop looking for us.”

“When the trail goes cold enough, the resources will be directed elsewhere – there’s always a new monster to chase.”

“I know – that’s how I ended up here. Without Jack, they’ll probably never catch him.”

“I think you overestimate former Agent Crawford,” said Hannibal, quirking a brow, “if he could have caught this latest boy, he wouldn’t have had to ask for your help.” Will picked up the passport and work permit on the top of the stack and studied it.

“Dr. Fell… Italian. Interesting.”

“My mother was a Sforza,” said Dr. Lecter, and handed Will a passport of his own. Raising his eyebrows, Will took it and flipped it open before looking across at Hannibal.

“You’ve had this a long time.”

Hannibal said nothing, merely regarded him across the table and sipped his scotch. Will supposed there really wasn’t anything that needed to be said on the matter and glanced down at his hands.

“Your gun and wallet are in the nightstand in your room, if you want any of that,” said Hannibal. Will blinked, not having thought to even look in there for anything. 

“Does the TV work here?” he inquired.

“It ought to. Would you like to watch the news?”

“Yes and no,” said Will, wryly, “but I feel like we should know what’s happening.”

“If they knew where we are, they’d already be at the door,” observed Hannibal, “there’s nothing to lead them here.”

“It feels as though we’re outside of time here,” Will said, the usual slightly harsh tone of his voice under stress mellowed, perhaps due to the scotch or perhaps lulled by the isolation of the house on the bluff.

“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would always remember this time,” said Hannibal, quietly. Will deliberately pushed aside the stack of paper, the banded money, until it was no longer in the center of the table; Hannibal merely watched him.

“I’m tired of practicalities,” said Will, “can we leave this for now?”

“Of course.” Hannibal stood, lithe and graceful as a big cat.

“What impracticalities would you prefer?”

“I want you to take me to bed,” said Will, looking him in the face as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood.

Hannibal came to him then, pausing when he was perhaps a foot away to study Will’s face; his face flushed slightly under Dr. Lecter’s scrutiny but he did not drop his gaze.

“You have only ever to ask,” said Hannibal, “come, Will.” 

His body already thrumming with anticipation and nerves, Will padded after Hannibal down the hallway, unsure of what to expect but filled with want. The bedroom that he hadn’t seen yet had a stunning Eastern exposure, wall length picture windows lending a view of the Atlantic below that nearly took Will’s breath away. The room itself was pure Hannibal, of course; opulent and decorated in rich hues of deep blue. No sooner had they entered the room when Hannibal pulled him in and claimed his mouth in a kiss; it was leisurely and sensual and possessive, and Will was overwhelmed, breathless when Hannibal drew back. He searched Hannibal’s maroon gaze, anxiety and arousal warring in his face.

“Hannibal, I’ve never – I mean, with a man.”

“You worry too much Will,” replied Hannibal, a look of dangerous fondness crossing his face that most people would probably find alarming, “let me look after you.” His deft fingers unfastened Will’s top button, revealing the fine lines of his collarbones; he took his time with the rest of the buttons, exposing Will’s skin inch by inch to the cool air as the younger man’s breath hitched in excruciating anticipation. He’d waited a long time for this, and didn’t intend to rush the experience – at least for as long as he could hold back. It wasn’t in his predatory nature to be gentle, but he did know how to savor the finer things, and Will was certainly that, his hands clinging so desperately so Hannibal’s broad shoulders and a beautiful flush climbing his cheeks. Peeling the shirt from Will’s shoulders, Dr. Lecter used the half removed sleeves of his shirt to yank his arms behind his back and hold them there, and sank sharp teeth into the firm flesh of his shoulder, wrenching a moan from Will’s parted lips, before soothing it with a hot swipe of his tongue. Releasing his grip on Will’s arms, Hannibal stepped back and, his low pitched voice husky with lust, said,

“Take off your clothes, Will.” Will did as he was told, peeling his shirt the rest of the way off and unfastening his jeans, pulling them down over his hips along with his boxers and stepping out of the untidy pile carelessly. He shivered as Hannibal drank in the sight of him; he was as pale as ever where the sun hadn’t reached, smooth skin and clean lines of muscle, his cock rigid and slightly reddened, the bruise on his neck, darkened to a deep purple, marking Dr. Lecter’s claim. 

“Come here.” Apparently surrendering himself to Hannibal’s wishes and his own desires, Will came to him; his eyes widened as Dr. Lecter went to his knees before him, a look in his eyes that made Will feel devoured even before Hannibal’s hot mouth closed over the head of his cock and slid expertly down over the shaft, swallowing him to the hilt.

“Fuck,” swore Will involuntarily, his toes curling reflexively and his hands coming up, fingers grasping Dr. Lecter’s hair and his other hand cupping the side of his face, feeling the curve of a high cheekbone under his palm. He was mesmerized by the sight of his cock sliding between those murderous lips and part of him, even in the extremity of his desire, found a dark sort of humor in the fact that he hadn’t started the week expecting to have his cock in a cannibal’s mouth. Hannibal was making the most beautiful, obscene sounds and the suction intensified slightly, making Will’s thighs tremble; he was getting closer now, knew he wasn’t going to last if this went on any longer, and gasped,

“Hannibal – Jesus – I’m gonna –“

With a lingering swipe of his tongue across the head of Will’s cock, Hannibal pulled away, a clear strand of saliva trailing briefly from the firm flesh to Hannibal’s bottom lip briefly before he idly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood. 

“Not yet, Will,” he all but purred, “lie on the bed. Don’t touch yourself.”

Will did as instructed, except that he sat on the edge of it instead of lying down. He wanted to watch Hannibal undress, and he did so through lust hooded eyes, painfully hard and impatient with Dr. Lecter’s fastidiousness as he removed each article of clothing and folded it neatly instead of simply throwing it on the floor. Hannibal had lost some weight in prison; he was still all lean muscle, with an underlying grace and power; long thighs like a cavalryman, and a thick, uncut cock, as aesthetically proportioned as the rest of him. He did not look more vulnerable naked; instead, it was quite the opposite. As he approached the bed, Will did as he had asked and lay down, resting on his side to watch as Dr. Lecter opened the nightstand and withdrew a small, unlabeled glass bottle that Will, not entirely naïve, assumed was some sort of lube, and placed it on the nightstand. He glanced nervously down at the older man’s groin and up to his face as Hannibal’s weight settled on the bed beside him. The corner of Dr. Lecter’s mouth turned up in a rather predatory look of amusement.

Rolling Will completely onto his back with a hand on his hip, Dr. Lecter pushed his knees apart and crawled between them until his warm weight covered Will’s body; the younger man was shivering, a light thrumming of nerves and arousal, and Hannibal cupped a hand over his jaw, leaning in for a kiss that deepened and quickly became urgent, a hot, decadent slide of lips and tongues. Hannibal drew back a fraction to look at Will’s face, pupils wide with lust.

“Hannibal,” breathed Will, “I need you… please.”

Hannibal reached over to collect the bottle from the nightstand, and poured a generous amount into his hand.

“This may feel a little cold,” he said, “at first. Spread your legs for me.”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Will, rather impatiently, drawing a look of amusement from the former surgeon as the younger man complied with his instructions. Will squirmed a little as Hannibal dragged an oiled finger between his buttocks, circling the tight hole and began to prepare him with as much patience as he could muster, when it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to simply fuck him into the mattress immediately. Will tensed under his hand when he added a second finger, but cried out in surprised pleasure when a crook of the surgeon’s finger very deliberately swept tightly over his prostate. Hannibal slid his well-oiled fingers deftly in and out of Will’s tight heat, stretching him slowly open; Will’s cock wept copious fluid against his belly and he was whimpering impatiently when Dr. Lecter deemed him ready enough.

“Please,” gasped Will, looking thoroughly debauched as Hannibal slicked a handful of lubricant over his thick cock; Will felt the blunt tip nudge against the ring of muscle and then breach it; it burned, but pain and pleasure seemed inextricably connected between the two of them, and always had.

“More, Hannibal – please.” The breathless whine was enough to snap Dr. Lecter’s fraying self-control; with a snarl, he slid all the way to the hilt inside Will’s eager heat, and was nearly undone by the tight, throbbing squeeze around his cock. Hooking a hand behind Will’s right knee, he pushed it back against his chest so that Will’s ankle rested upon Hannibal’s broad shoulder; he didn’t try to go slowly; neither of them could have stood it. Will’s breathless moans, wanton and broken by spontaneous profanity, spurred Hannibal to drive into him harder and faster; he wrapped his free hand around Will’s engorged cock and stroked him roughly with a rhythm that matched his thrusts.

“Fuck, fuck… oh god,” Will tensed, his eyes widening as the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced exploded through his body; his vision went briefly white and he thought he might die from the pleasure of it, as his tight passage clamped around Hannibal’s cock, and thick gouts of semen spurted over Dr. Lecter’s hand. Hannibal, buried deep within Will’s trembling body, cried out roughly as a wave of overwhelming pleasure shook him to the core, his own release following Will’s by seconds. They remained where they were for what felt like a moment of eternity, panting harshly and shivering with aftershocks like tremors after an earthquake.

At last, Hannibal slid free of him and disappeared into the bathroom briefly, returning with a warm, damp towel to clean up.

“Do I still have to sleep in the guest room?” asked Will, with lazy insolence.


	17. Chapter 17

As pleased as she was about the opportunity for her exploitative brand of yellow journalism to get this coup today, Freddie Lounds could not help rolling her eyes when she saw that Chilton had shown up for his filmed interview with a professional stylist and makeup artist.

“This isn’t exactly 60 Minutes,” she said, while his fluffers fluffed, one expensively clad toe tapping the ground. 

“One never knows where footage might end up,” said Frederick, preening in the mirror, “this could be a large opportunity for both of us, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say that I’m curious about what other opportunities your employer is angling for,” said Freddie, “but apparently, that isn’t to be a part of this conversation. Whenever you’re finished.”

Half an hour later, Dr. Chilton had been situated in a very sober and expensive looking leather armchair, with an end table next to him bearing a stack of medical books to bolster his look of expertise. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, and the air of one who feels like the weight of an out of control society is borne upon his knowledgeable shoulders. Freddie’s cameraman stood just off to the side, and a secondary tech captured footage of Ms. Lounds for later splicing for the streaming video. After the introductions were made (Chilton being described as Dr. Lecter’s current psychiatrist and expert analyst, recently aiding the FBI in their hunt for their latest killer), Freddie said,

“So tell me about how you became involved in the hunt for the Tooth Fairy.”

“Well, it was in a very unofficial capacity of course, but Agent Graham came to me for advice on a profile he was working on… he said that he was familiar with my capabilities from a few years earlier, and of course, has read my works, particularly ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’ and has a great respect for my -”

“I assume that you mean former FBI profiler, William Graham,” said Freddie, with the appropriate tone of disapproval, “it was my understanding that he was retired … after the shocking allegations about his involvement in the Lecter case. It seems that he should have stayed in retirement.”

“Yes, it seems he was asked for assistance on this case. He does have a knack for getting into the minds of killers.”

“It has been speculated that that is because he is a killer himself,” said Freddie, “I’m sure that his thoughts must have been very interesting regarding the Tooth Fairy.”

“Very interesting indeed,” said Chilton, “in fact, he left me a copy of his case notes, before he fled with Hannibal Lecter, which I have studied extensively.”

“Can you share some of his insights with us?”

“Certainly,” replied Chilton, crisply, smoothing a hand over his already immoveable hair, “he believes that the Fairy was molested as a child, and is surely the product of an incestuous relationship – he may be physically deformed because of this.”

“So, Will Graham thinks that the mirror smashing at the crime scenes is because -?”

“He can’t bear the sight of himself… according to Will Graham, he is not only insane, but – and you understand I am merely quoting Mr. Graham here – also ugly and impotent.”

“What do you think, Doctor?”

Puffing up self-importantly, Chilton said,

“The Tooth Fairy's actions indicate a projective delusion compensating for intolerable feelings of inadequacy. Smashing mirrors ties these feelings to his appearance.”

“So essentially, you agree then,” said Freddie. Chilton steepled his hands beneath his chin in a scholarly pose, and went for the drama.

“This is the child of a nightmare.”

Freddie made a barely audible hum of appreciation, and changed direction; this wasn’t part of the deal, but nobody said the topic was off limits, and she was nothing if not an opportunist.

“Speaking of Agent Graham, what are your thoughts on his whereabouts now? Do you think Hannibal Lecter has killed him?”

A little surprised but happy enough to play along, Chilton said,

“I wouldn’t like to speculate as to what Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham might have done to each other at this point.”

“Will Graham has a wife and child,” said Freddie, with all the compassion she could muster in her tone, “do you think they’ll be safe?”

“From Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, or from the Tooth Fairy?” asked Chilton, rather archly, “I’d say any or all of them would be dangerous. I do hope that the FBI has moved her to a secure location where she can be properly guarded until the criminals are apprehended.”

“Would you like to speculate as to why Will Graham, when he came back to help the FBI, would have helped free Lecter from prison?”

Chilton paused, and then said, in a confidential tone,

“When he came to see me for help with the profile, he also visited Hannibal Lecter. I couldn’t say what they discussed … but they didn’t look like enemies to me.”


	18. Chapter 18

“That lying little slimy fuck,” swore Will. He was lying in bed, propped up on some of Hannibal’s sumptuous pillows, watching Chilton’s interview on Tattlecrime on the tablet they had been using to keep up with the news; it had been twenty four hours since it was posted online, and had now become a topic of much interest – not to mention inciting further hysteria about Hannibal Lecter roaming about in the world. No doubt Dr. Chilton was enjoying his moment in the limelight. As much as they both despised Ms. Lounds, her blog was admittedly a better source of information than the straight news, even if it wasn’t all accurate.

Hannibal emerged from the bathroom where he’d been shaving with an unsettlingly sharp straight razor. He was wearing loose pants that were probably outrageously expensive, and nothing else. For a pair of confirmed killers, they’d been surprisingly domesticated for the past few days, but they were both beginning to get restless; Will could see it in the tautness of Dr. Lecter’s shoulders and the occasional darkly contemplative look in his eyes when he was silent. For his part, he had taken to exploring the scrubby woods around the house on the bluff and standing, bundled up in one of Hannibal’s sweaters, at the edge of the eroding bluff, feeling the icy air against his face and breathing the salt air of the Atlantic. This felt like an interlude, the calm at the eye of the storm – when he stood out over the ocean and watched it lash against the rocks below, he fancied he could feel the coming thunderheads like a pressure building from within.

Will felt the weight of Hannibal settling onto the bed beside him, the scent of him pleasant with cologne and whatever outrageously expensive shaving cream he used and better yet, the heady scent of his skin that was beginning to feel intimately familiar. Hannibal reached over to turn the face of the tablet in Will’s hands so that he could see it as well; Will leaned into him, mindlessly seeking closeness, and Hannibal settled against the pillows with Will curled into his side.

“You’ll have to restart the video,” said Dr. Lecter. The outer corners of his eyes tightened with irritation at the interview that followed, while Will grumbled under his breath when Chilton started in again about Will’s supposed respect for him and his work; when he had finished going into Will’s supposed profile of the Tooth Fairy, Will sat up straight, his blue eyes blazing with anger.

“The son of a bitch is riling him up on purpose,” he spat, nearly biting the words off, “no straight news would have ever let this get out.”

“Tattlecrime is not straight news,” said Hannibal, stating the obvious, “Will, Frederick and Mason Verger are not trying to direct a killer toward us to wreak his vengeance - even if he could, what Mason wants is not for you and I to die at the hands of someone else. The lure is not for this shy boy of yours.”

“No – but he could still snap at it, and he wouldn’t need to know where we are to do that,” said Will, standing up and running his hands distractedly through his hair. Hannibal sat up, watching with intrigue as the younger man turned to face him, his jaw set and fury settled into the fine lines of his face.

“I think,” Will ground out, “that we should pay Dr. Chilton a visit.”

Dr. Lecter smiled, then, all sharp teeth and terrible fondness; his claret colored eyes darkened with approval.


	19. Chapter 19

Frederick Chilton, just as pleased with himself as a person could be and radiating smugness, swept through the underground parking garage in his caramel colored overcoat, two bodyguards trailing behind him. The guards were Mason’s doing, not because he was truly concerned about Dr. Chilton’s wellbeing, but because he might not have outlived his usefulness yet. He was treating them as though they were an interested entourage, talking up his new book, “Blood and Chocolate”, apparently a new definitive work based on Hannibal Lecter that was going to make him a household name; he got into the waiting SUV without noticing that his driver was unusually silent. Finally, it dawned on him that they weren’t moving, and he reached over to nudge the driver.

“Are you asleep? Wake up, we’ve got to get a move on, I’m waiting for – oh my god.” His hand had dislodged the propped up body behind the wheel, and the driver’s head lolled bonelessly to one side, hideously mobile on the broken stem of his neck. There was no blood, but the eyes were wide and glazed and it was this sight that spiked an icepick of panic in Dr. Chilton’s spine. He flung open the door to escape the vehicle, slipping in a puddle of fresh blood; went to his knees, eyes bulging as he wallowed like a terror stricken pig in mud, his expensive overcoat sodden with blood – then, the strong stench of a chemical and a rag over his face in terribly strong hands, and he was falling into darkness, still flailing for the door handle.

When he awakened, the first thing he was aware of was that he was cold. Very cold. A brisk wind whipped crystals of light snow into his face, bringing clarity along with an ether induced headache; he didn’t panic at first, panic came when he realized that he couldn’t move, that he was strapped to something. His eyes widened in shock when a familiar voice spoke from just behind him.

“Hello Frederick.”

Hannibal stepped around the front of him, a look of pure predatory pleasure on his face that did not promise anything good. It slowly dawned upon Chilton that what he was strapped to was the wheeled cart they had used to transport Hannibal when he’d been the most infamous patient of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The view was so familiar because they were on the roof of said location; he hadn’t recognized it at first, since the sightline was much higher than that he’d enjoyed through his office window as he presided over the specimens in the basement dungeon. He tried to scream, but produced nothing but a muffled vibration behind the thick piece of duct tape over his mouth.

“Can you hear me, Frederick? Take some deep breaths while you can, and clear your head.”

There was a noise intruding from behind him; an odd squeaking sound. He tried to turn his head toward it but failed.

“Ah, thank you Will. That will do perfectly,” said Dr. Lecter, as Will came around in the brisk cold where Chilton could see him. He was wheeling a heavy duty floor cleaner, and unwinding its thick orange power cable as he came. Frederick’s eyes widened and his shivering intensified as he began tying a hangman’s noose in the end of it; Will wasn’t familiar with the process, but he was good with knots from his years working on boats, and he easily deduced how it worked.

“Are we saving any of him for later?” inquired Will, regarding Chilton with a curious tilt to his head.

“Mm… perhaps,” said Hannibal, contemplatively, “I haven’t had a bite all day. Actually, the liver and kidneys would be suitable for dinner right away – tonight – but the rest of the meat should hang a week in the current cool conditions.”

Chilton was squirming against his bonds. Will looked at him sidelong with a raised brow and then returned his attention to Hannibal.

“If you tell us what we need to know, Frederick, perhaps you won’t be on the menu this evening,” said Dr. Lecter, “we’ll ask you the questions, and then we’ll see.”

Chilton nodded frantically, as best he could.

“Do you think you can keep from screaming?” Dr. Lecter glanced pointedly down at his hand, where moonlight gleamed from the wicked blade of his Harpy. Will came closer then, reached in and snatched the tape from Dr. Chilton’s mouth in a single, rough yank.

“You don’t have to kill me,” stammered Chilton, through swollen lips, “I have money, you need money to run.”

“We’re not going to kill you because we _have_ to,” said Will, “that interview with Freddie Lounds. You know damn well I never consulted with you on any case. You couldn’t analyze your way out of a wet paper bag. You just wanted the Tooth Fairy good and pissed off.”

“It wasn’t me!” exclaimed Frederick, wet eyed with terror.

“Was it Mason Verger who told you to lie?” asked Hannibal, almost casually. Frederick hesitated and Dr. Lecter looked over at Will.

“What do you think, Will - bowels in or bowels out?”

“Alright yes, it was Verger!! Please, no – I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“What was he hoping to achieve? Does he believe that this killer knows how to find us? Or was there a different target in mind?” asked Will, already knowing the answer.

“He thought he’d go after your wife. You’d know that, if you saw the interview, and you’d try to protect her, then his men would grab you there,” he was close to babbling, willing to spill his guts about anything and everything.

“Where is she?” asked Will, edgily.

“A safe house. Baltimore. Favor from Kade Prurnell. Mason’s paid her off, she has political ambitions. We have the address, Mason was going to leak it this week where the Fairy would see it.”

Hannibal watched Will interrogate Chilton with interest, the aggressive stance and tension across the younger man’s shoulders apparent even in the heavy coat he wore. He was debating whether to interrupt, when the absurdly cheerful ring tone of Frederick’s phone started chirping away in his pocket. Hannibal fished it out and raised a brow at the name he saw on the screen. Will slapped the tape back over Chilton’s mouth, and looked inquisitively over at Dr. Lecter as he answered the phone. The female voice on the other end was very familiar; recognizing it, Will recoiled visibly.

“Frederick, where the hell are you? Your bodyguards aren’t answering and – “

“Hello Alana,” said Dr. Lecter. Dead silence on the other end. Finally, a half whispered,

“Is he dead?”

“I must apologize, Alana, but I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a rather awkward moment. Not to worry though, we’ll have some catching up of our own to do very soon.” With that, he hung up the phone and put it back in Frederick’s pocket.

“It seems that Dr. Bloom has a new set of priorities these days,” he commented, blandly. Will’s stormy blue eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath, composing himself, and turned back to Chilton.

“We need the address of that safe house.”

He ripped the tape off again, not gently. Frederick gave it to him, stumbling over the syllables, and began a hurried plea for his life that was cut off by Will retaping his mouth unceremoniously and draping the noose around his neck. Hannibal tightened it obligingly.

“Definitely bowels _out_ ,” said Will, a righteous God invoking judgment. Hannibal gave him a long look; maroon sparks pinwheeled in the darkness of his eyes. Then, a swift slash of the harpy in his hand in Chilton’s belly, up his front, and another swipe to sever his attachment to the hand truck where Dr. Lecter had spent a lot of contemplative hours wandering the halls of his memory palace. Frederick tilted over the railing, the heavy floor cleaner slid fast across the icy rooftop and jerked to a stop at the rail. Dr. Chilton jerked as well, when he reached the end of his literal rope; his neck snapped, and his bowels fell out with a wet splat on the front steps of the hospital.


	20. Chapter 20

It took very little time for Hannibal and Will to get back to the car they’d left at the edge of the parking lot in the shadows of an unlit corner; security aboveground in the hospital was lackadaisical at best. They’d taken Hannibal’s second car out of the garage of the Chesapeake house; it had been stored there since before Dr. Lecter’s imprisonment, and was in impeccable condition, a sleek black Jaguar XJ. His Bentley had been auctioned off after his trial and subsequent imprisonment, but the supercharged Jag was a more than acceptable substitute. Hannibal slid behind the wheel into the leather scented interior, and no sooner had he closed the door when Will, bright eyed and ferocious, was nearly in his lap across the gear shift. Tangling his hands in Hannibal’s short hair, the younger man crashed their lips together in a fierce kiss, sensually licking his way into Dr. Lecter’s mouth and nipping his bottom lip.

Dr. Lecter, surprised but certainly not complaining, shifted sideways in the seat to make the angle less awkward and gripped Will roughly by the upper arms, long, surgeon’s fingers stroking the muscle beneath the winter coat as they kissed, Will making low pitched noises of encouragement deep in his throat, nearly whining into Hannibal’s mouth. Reluctantly, Dr. Lecter drew back after a moment and said,

“We ought to go. Frederick won’t remain undisturbed for long.”

Will settled into his seat grudgingly, his gaze drawn toward the front of the hospital where Frederick dangled over the steps like a bloody Halloween decoration. He stared at the gory spectacle silently until it dwindled away into the rearview mirror, then finally exhaled a shaky breath. Dr. Lecter looked at him sidelong, the streetlights washing over the cleanly sculpted bones of his face.

“How did it feel to choose Dr. Chilton’s fate, Will?” he inquired, over the imposing voice of the 470hp engine. 

“Righteous,” said Will, harshly and without hesitation.

“More righteous than you would feel about killing me?” asked Hannibal, the corner of his mouth turning up a fraction.

“I don’t want to kill you,” said Will, his tone softening slightly, “not anymore.”

It took a little less over an hour to return to the house on the bluff; Will having been rendered unconscious for their initial arrival there, paid attention to the route this time and was surprised to find that it really wasn’t that far from Baltimore.

Hannibal busied himself preparing drinks for the two of them, while Will hovered around the kitchen and watched the steady movement of his hands. The heavy outerwear stowed away in the coat closet, Will wore a shirt of Hannibal’s that was slightly too big for him, open at the throat with the sleeves rolled back to the elbows, and the color suited him; a dark silvery gray. Dr. Lecter brought a cut crystal tumbler over to him and, lifting a hand to cup Will’s jaw, indulged in an open mouthed kiss that turned quickly hot and humid, tongues leisurely exploring each other’s mouths. When it was over, Will exhaled a shuddering breath and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey under Hannibal’s intensely focused gaze; there was something in Dr. Lecter’s eyes that was darkly, contemplatively besotted and it made Will feel almost drunk with lust. He felt an electric charge where Hannibal’s hand rested possessively under his elbow; he fancied there were sparks jumping from his skin where long, deft fingers stroked there, and the fine hairs rose on his forearms.

“I imagine that Mason will abandon his current plan once he has learned what’s become of the unfortunate Dr. Chilton,” observed Hannibal, “he’ll never know how much Frederick has revealed.”

“I’m sure that knowing Frederick, he will assume we know whatever he knew,” replied Will, with a look of distaste.

“May I ask then, what it is that you’re planning to do with the address of a certain safe house?” inquired Hannibal, a slightly dangerous edge leaking into his tone.

“I need to do something. Do we have an envelope?”

“In the bureau.”

Will put his glass down on the counter and left the room; he came back a few moments later with a padded envelope and stamps that he dropped onto the counter, the address of Molly’s current location penned across the front in Will’s familiar rather untidy handwriting. It was addressed to Molly Foster.

Hannibal watched in silence, his hand cradling the scotch he’d poured for himself, as Will looked up and met his eyes; then, holding Dr. Lecter’s claret colored gaze, Will swallowed hard and slid the wedding ring from his finger and dropped it into the envelope. He was sealing it when Hannibal crossed the floor, coming to him in two quick strides, and nuzzled the side of his neck with a low hum of approval, kissing him just under the ear while his large hands came to rest on Will’s hips. 

“I just didn’t want her to wait and wonder,” said Will, huskily. Hannibal, being Hannibal, would have preferred for her not to wait and wonder because her liver and kidneys were in his freezer, but recognizing that it wasn’t practical, this was an acceptable, if not ideal, alternative.

“Almost polite,” murmured Hannibal against his dark hair, “we’ll put it in a mail drop next time we’re in town.”

“Can we watch the news?” asked Will, changing the subject. He found, to his own surprise, that he wasn’t only avoiding further discussion of Molly … he was also curious to see their handiwork; surely Dr. Chilton had been found by now.

As it turned out, Chilton had indeed been found, and achieved a level of celebrity in death that he had only ever aspired to in life. It was a media circus at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and Fox News got a very good shot of the body being lowered into the waiting arms of Baltimore firefighters, the pendant viscera having been boosted up with a net so that nothing was missed. The FBI were on the scene in force, Jack’s replacement (a ladder climbing protegee of Kade Prurnell named Eric Pickford) walking around self-importantly with his finger jabbing the air as he made some particularly trenchant point.

At Muskrat Farm, Mason Verger looked away from the television screen, a vein pulsing with fury in his forehead.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Cordell, taking a prudent step backward.

“Get me Dr. Bloom,” spat Mason.


	21. Chapter 21

Cordell didn’t have to go far to find Alana; she was sitting in the parlor, looking pale and shaken. The police officers who had been by to interview her about Frederick’s final phone call had left half an hour ago, but she had been waiting for Mason’s summons that would inevitably come afterwards. She followed Cordell to Mason’s room, heels clicking as she crossed the glass floor with the eel turning sinuously beneath in its endless infinity loop.

 

Mason was propped up in bed, looking as furious as a person can when their facial features are a lump of scar tissue.

 

“Tell me,” he said.

 

“They found his car,” she said, “in a parking garage downtown. All three of his bodyguards were killed – one inside the vehicle with his neck broken, the other two had their throats cut and were stashed in the back of the SUV. That’s where they grabbed Frederick.”

 

“ _They?_ ”

 

“I told you, Mason. They always had an unusual relationship,” said Alana, coolly.

 

“How do you know they were both there? You only spoke to Lecter.”

 

“Our source at the BAU confirmed that the fingerprints on the noose belong to Will Graham.” Alana looked perturbed by this development; while she could have easily imagined Hannibal sparing Will’s life, she wouldn’t have expected the profiler to be an active participant in a premeditated murder as brutal as what had been done to Chilton. Mason all but gnashed his teeth.

 

“We may as well forget about Graham coming to rescue the little woman then.”

 

“That was always a long shot, Mason. It felt like a trap – it would to them too. Now I would bet they have confirmation from Chilton.”

 

“Didn’t you say, Dr. Bloom, that Dr. Lecter promised to kill you one day?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you think he meant it?”

 

“First chance he gets, I imagine. Hannibal doesn’t make promises that he doesn’t keep.”

 

“How badly do you think he wants you?” Mason sounded speculative.

 

“Forget it,” said Alana, firmly, “I’d have to be a fool to go along with what you’re thinking of.”

 

“You’d be covered – all the time.”

 

“You mean like Frederick was covered? No, Mason. We’ll have to find another way.”

 

Not used to being so seamlessly baulked, Mason glared at Alana; she didn’t budge. Finally, he said,

 

“We’ll have to find them then. Use the FBI resources. Send the helicopter for Ms. Prurnell tomorrow.”

 

*

 

Will had had enough of the news once it became repetitive; a whole new scandal had broken when his fingerprints had been identified on the noose, as they had both been expecting. He found it less disturbing than he would have thought; now there was no going back, and there was a heady freedom to that knowledge. Having grown bored of watching himself on TV, Will had impulsively climbed into Hannibal’s lap and was currently straddling his lean hips, ass unapologetically pressed against the older man’s groin. Dr. Lecter, who had been perusing a very complicated looking cookbook written in French, promptly put down his book and drew Will closer with strong hands squeezing his hips.

 

“Where will we go?” asked Will, squirming a little impatiently and enjoying the stir of interest in Hannibal’s cock beneath him, “afterwards?” He was continually surprised at his physical hunger for Dr. Lecter; he couldn’t recall ever particularly being interested in another man in that way, much less being practically unable to keep his hands off one. He supposed it wasn’t _men_ , exactly, that stirred him now – it was just Hannibal.

 

“Where would you like to go?” said Hannibal, inwardly delighted with the warm weight of squirming Will that had unexpectedly and quite literally landed in his lap. He leaned in to lavish the side of Will’s bared neck with teasing grazes of his sharp teeth, causing the younger man’s breath to hitch.

 

“Anywhere. I don’t know. Somewhere warm, where nobody will know who we are. Maybe by the ocean.”

 

“Do you miss Florida, Will?”

 

“Things were simple there,” sighed Will, with a slow grind of his hips, “but no – it was never where I was supposed to be.”

 

Dr. Lecter pulled him in for a kiss then, with a firm hand at the nape of his neck; it was slow and sensual, intensifying quickly with every slick slide of tongues, and Will was moaning into Hannibal’s mouth and grinding mindlessly against the thick, hard cock pressed against his backside. Hannibal slid his hands under Will, then, and stood up, picking the younger man up with him. It is always surprising to see Dr. Lecter move a body – size for size, he is as strong as an ant. Will’s arms wound instinctively around Hannibal’s neck, his legs wrapping around his hips, as he was carried swiftly to the bedroom overlooking the ocean.


	22. Chapter 22

Hannibal deposited Will on the bed, and was promptly dragged down on top of him; Will’s hands impatiently tugged at the buttons of his vest and then his shirt, grumbling under his breath something about so many damned layers of clothing. Hannibal caught his wrist before he managed to actually tear off any buttons and deftly finished the job himself; no sooner had he unfastened the last button, Will was tugging the garments over his broad shoulders and down his arms, struggling with the cuffs and kissing every inch of hot flesh he could get to before Dr. Lecter got up and shrugged out of his shirt and vest, then for once, just threw them over a nearby chair.

 

Will, meanwhile, was disrobing himself with unprecedented haste, and kicked off his boxers without looking to see where they landed. Hannibal, prowling up behind him like a large predator, crowded the younger man against the dresser, the hot, hard length of his cock pressed firmly against the cleft of Will’s buttocks. Will deliberately widened his stance and braced himself with his hands on the smooth wooden surface, his heart hammering in his chest; he glanced up and caught his own reflection in the mirror, face flushed and heavy lidded with arousal, and met Hannibal’s reddish gaze over his shoulder. Dr. Lecter lowered his hot mouth to Will’s bare shoulder, licking a stripe across the exposed skin and nipping gently with his sharp teeth, making Will shudder and press wantonly back against him. He heard rather than saw the older man open a drawer, then a slick, wet sound; slippery, expert fingers teased his tight hole and Will fought the urge to tense up as one deft digit breached the ring of muscle, dragging sensually over his prostate and making him jerk and quiver. It was soon joined by a second, the stretch not so foreign to Will this time; he relaxed gradually, small noises of pleasure parting his lips as he was opened up with infinite patience, Dr. Lecter’s lips heated against the nape of his neck where he kissed him and nuzzled into the dark curls there.

 

Will made a whimpered sound of protest as Dr. Lecter slid his fingers free and looped a strong arm around his torso instead, holding him against Hannibal’s broad chest and teasing his nipples with squeezes and pinches just on the sharp edge of painful. The older man nudged Will’s feet further apart and Will felt the insistent push of the thick head of Hannibal’s cock, fat against his entrance and slick with lube; a raw groan escaped Will as he slid inside inch by inch, the sensation of fullness and pressure nearly too much to handle. Hannibal’s free hand came around to grasp his hip, hard – there would be bruises the next day. Then he began to move, a purposeful, efficient pace that lifted Will onto the balls of his feet with every thrust, the younger man’s breath coming in harsh, rhythmic gasps at the overwhelming sensations, his scent heady with arousal. Hannibal breathed him in, burying his face briefly in the sweat dampened curls at the nape of Will’s neck; he was perfect in his moment, face slack with pleasure in the mirror, then tightening ecstatically with every solid slide of Dr. Lecter’s cock inside him as he braced himself on the dresser and was pulled back into Hannibal’s hips. The rhythm became brutal, Hannibal driving into him mercilessly as Will lost himself in incoherent whimpers and moans, his cock heavy and flushed and untouched until Dr. Lecter’s terribly efficient hand circled it and began to stroke firmly up and down his length, matching the cadence of his own thrusts.

 

Moments later, an almost painfully intense cry wrenched from Will’s lips and he shuddered in the grip of his orgasm, hot fluid spattering the lacquered wood of the dresser. Hannibal came only seconds later, teeth clenched and every muscle in his body tensing violently. He did not move right away; his weight resting against Will’s sweat sheened back as they caught their breath. Finally, Will breathed,

 

“ _Christ,_ Hannibal.”

 

“Not quite,” replied Dr. Lecter, smiling a little against Will’s shoulder. Finally, he slid free; Will winced a little – he was definitely going to be sore the next day.

 

“A shower, I think,” said Hannibal, gesturing toward the en suite in an “after you” motion. As Will headed for the shower, a thick, hot rivulet of semen trickling slowly down his inner thigh, it occurred to him that he was actually … happy.

 

Later on, lying in bed, Will rolled over onto one elbow to look over at the killer whose bed he was now sharing.

 

“Do you have a plan? For what we need to do before we leave the country?” he inquired, sleepily.

 

“A final dinner party … in your honor, of course,” said Dr. Lecter.

 

“What are we having?”

 

“You never ask … it spoils the surprise.”


	23. Chapter 23

The next morning, in the early frost, the Jaguar backed out of the garage bearing Dr. Lecter, bundled up and practically unrecognizable in layers of worn and padded winter wear that added a visual thirty pounds to his lean frame. It was fortunate that it was winter and the attire wouldn’t draw any unusual attention. He had some things to pick up in the city; Will had grumbled something into his pillow when he’d told him he was going out, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

 

Hannibal, adopting a slope shouldered, ambling gait and a pair of spectacles that he didn’t need at all, wound his way through gourmet shops and purveyors of fine kitchen equipment, selecting a few things, and adding to his collection a truly festive bottle of Chateau Y’Quem before making a final stop at a grimy telephone booth outside a chain supermarket. His call took only a few moments; satisfied, he started back toward the Chesapeake house, trunk filled with the items he had procured. He decided on Scarlatti for the drive.

 

Dr. Lecter brought his things into the house and patiently peeled off all of the unnecessary outerwear, hanging it in the closet just inside the foyer; he was putting away things in the large Sub-Zero refrigerator when Will padded into the room barefoot, in a pair of soft pants and a t-shirt, clearly fresh out of the shower with his dark hair combed back from his brow.

 

“You went shopping?” he said, curiously.

 

“There were some things that I wished to acquire, yes,” replied Hannibal, turning to offer Will a fond half smile, “I had some arrangements to make as well.” Will started to help him put the various packages of food away but stopped himself, positive that Hannibal had a very particular way that he wanted everything stored.

 

“What sort of arrangements?” he inquired, instead, sliding onto a stool at the countertop and resting his elbows on the marble surface while he watched Hannibal’s graceful, efficient movements.

 

“We share a common goal with a third party,” said Dr. Lecter, closing the fridge and turning to face Will, “if we are to realize your desire to run without being chased by Mason Verger for the rest of our lives, it would behoove us to take advantage of a mutual desire to see him dead.”

 

Will frowned, considering, but not for long. His mind was, after all, what Hannibal had been drawn to first.

 

“Are you talking about Margot Verger?” he said, brows lifting a little incredulously, “if Mason dies, she’ll be penniless.”

 

“Only if he dies without an heir,” said Hannibal, “there’s no reason to think that Mason isn’t currently in possession of perfectly viable sperm – it wouldn’t be difficult for her to harvest it. The only obstacle would be selecting a surrogate mother, which should hardly present much difficulty.”

 

Will grimaced at the idea of anyone having to harvest Mason’s viable sperm. Not his problem, though.

 

“What would she need from us, then?” he said.

 

“An ironclad alibi,” replied Hannibal, with great equanimity, “nobody would suspect Margot if I killed her brother.”

 

“We’re going to sneak into Muskrat Farm and kill Mason Verger? Don’t you think that’s a little reckless? God knows how much security is there.”

 

“Not at all. Actually, I told Margot during our sessions that it would be more therapeutic for her to kill him herself. All she’d need is a little DNA evidence … and I’d never say that I _didn’t_ do it.”

 

“Do you trust her?”

 

“Of course not, no more than she trusts me – but perhaps a healthy dose of self-interest will prevail. Besides, what’s another murder to me? If she changes her mind and decides to keep him alive, we can make plans to call upon him ourselves later.”

 

“How are we going to do this?” It didn’t escape Hannibal’s notice that Will had assumed he’d be coming along; he didn’t object, though.

 

“We’ll meet her alone at an out of the way motel – Traveler’s Rest just outside the city.”

 

“When?”

 

“Will tonight suit?”

 

“Yes,” said Will, a little anxiety tightening in his gut, “let’s get it over with.”


	24. Chapter 24

On the way to the rendezvous, Dr. Lecter made two stops – the first was at a mail drop, where Will deposited a padded envelope without comment or hesitation. When he returned to the car, Hannibal favored him with a warm look, but didn’t say anything, merely stroked a thumb gently over Will’s now unadorned left hand. The second was a secure storage facility where they traded the Jaguar for the evening with a rather down at the heels sedan that wouldn’t be so conspicuous.

 

“How many cars do you _have_?” inquired Will, looking amused as they climbed into the older vehicle. It smelled of musty disuse but started without any trouble.

 

“Currently, only three,” said Hannibal, “in light of our rendezvous point, it wouldn’t do to draw attention. This car belonged to a former patient of mine.”

 

“I probably don’t want to know how you ended up with it.”

 

“Probably not,” agreed Dr. Lecter.

 

The Traveler’s Rest was an unassuming two story motel, convenient to the highway and a Waffle House; the parking lot of both hosted a number of 18 wheelers and a motley assortment of drab, older vehicles. The drone of the highway was ever present in the background; Will wondered how many traveling salesmen, weary from the road and loneliness, had sat in those spartan rooms, contemplating or committing suicide, how many scabby, underfed children had been stowed away there with a single parent on the run.

 

“Depressing,” was all he said. They weren’t due to meet for a while yet; Dr. Lecter parked at the back of the lot where they could observe all of the new arrivals easily.

 

“Do you know the room number?” asked Will.

 

“22A,” replied Hannibal, his eyes glinting redly in the dying daylight, “it’s the third one from the end just there… on the ground floor.” There was already a light on in the room, but the shades were drawn. An SUV parked in the front row and three men climbed out of it; the vehicle was definitely high end compared to the rest of the cars in the lot, though not obtrusively so. The occupants of it went directly into the room next door to 22A; they watched as the light went on inside, and then, a moment later, another light came on in the room flanking 22A on the other side.

 

“Does this place have adjoining rooms?” inquired Will.

 

“I imagine so – it would seem that Margot doesn’t quite trust us,” said Hannibal, mildly.

 

“Or this is a trap.”

 

“That has always been a possibility,” conceded Hannibal, “however, I have no intention of being caught in it, should that be the case.”

 

“We don’t even know if Margot is here at all,” said Will, tautly.

 

“We will. She’ll know that we won’t come if she doesn’t show herself.” This was proven to be a correct assessment; fifteen minutes before the scheduled rendezvous time, the door of 22A opened, and a familiar slender figure stepped into the doorway, her eyes swept the lot, wide as those of a frightened deer, and then she quickly stepped back inside the room.

 

“This place is old,” said Will, raising a brow in Hannibal’s direction, “no card keys.” Deliberately, he let his jacket fall open enough for the holstered gun beneath to be visible briefly. Beneath it, a hunting knife was sheathed at his hip. Dr. Lecter smiled openly then; it was predatory and full of sharp teeth.

 

*

 

At precisely 9pm, there was a knock on the door of 22A. Margot Verger opened the door, dressed in a rather more subdued fashion than usual, in a severe black pantsuit.

 

“Hello, Margot,” said Hannibal, politely. Margot swallowed hard, her gaze stuttering between Dr. Lecter and Will, and then she stepped back to let them into the room, shooting a sidelong look toward Alana, who was sitting tersely on the edge of one of the twin beds.

 

“Dr. Bloom,” Will said, with harsh sarcasm, “wouldn’t have expected to find you here.” Alana glared at him, and said,

 

“I could say the same for you, Will.” Her frosty gaze lowered to his neck, which was still sporting a livid purple bruise; she looked taken aback for a moment, before regaining her composure. Hannibal, looking as elegantly at ease as if he were having a dinner party, said,

 

“Will has merely followed the path of his true nature. Have you?”

 

“Will’s _true nature_ is not a killer,” spat Alana, “as for mine, my priorities are not what they were before I was thrown out of an upstairs window.”

 

Will raised both eyebrows in a silently confrontational manner. Margot looked distinctly uncomfortable and said hastily,

 

“Let’s just do what we came to do. Dr. Lecter, how would you prefer to contribute - ?”

 

Hannibal withdrew a small plastic bag from the breast pocket of his coat, and without ceremony, plucked a piece of hair from the side of his head, making sure to get a bit of scalp along with it, and deposited it inside the bag, handing it over to Margot, who put it away in her pocket immediately.

 

“That should do,” he said, “now, as for getting the other part of what you want… do you know what would happen if you stimulated Mason’s prostate with a cattle prod?”

 

Margot smiled a little at that, most likely picturing Mason’s indignation at the process and not at all averse to humiliating him.

 

“The other part of our agreement?” said Hannibal.

 

“It’s done,” said Margot.

 

“Then it seems our business is concluded,” said Hannibal.

 

“Wait just a minute,” said Alana, getting up, “we have one more piece of business between us. You made a promise to me, the last time we saw each other. I need to know that you won’t be able to keep it.” She reached into her bag and withdrew a handgun, standing as she aimed the muzzle toward Hannibal.

 

“Alana, what are you doing?” whispered Margot, taking a step back.

 

“Ensuring that we have a future,” said Alana, coldly, “Margot, go and open the adjoining doors.”

 

“Alana,” said Hannibal, in a lethally even tone, “you seem to have forgotten that I _always_ keep my promises.”

 

Margot stumbled a little as she fled to open the door to the adjoining room, then the other one. There was dead silence from both sides; Alana leaned sideways, frowning as she tried to see where the reinforcements were; her hand trembled on the gun, and it was then that she noticed the blood on Will’s cuffs. Dr. Lecter’s mouth curled in a contemptuous expression as she thumb cocked the weapon, her eyes wide with panic.

 

“You didn’t take my bullets this time,” she said, her breath hitching.

 

Margot was frozen with shock and fear; Will swiftly moved behind her with a quick lunge, pinning her against his chest while his free hand swept the hunting knife from his belt and held it against her pale throat. Distracted by the sudden movement, Alana looked away from Hannibal for a split second; it was long enough. Like a big cat, he was on her; the gun fell to the floor with a thump, and then she was pinned between his body and the scarred dressing table; roughly, he spun her around by the shoulders, one hand squeezing her throat with just enough pressure to be a warning.

 

“Very rude of you, Doctor Bloom,” he said, as she struggled to free herself. Will, his knife steady at Margot’s heaving throat, stared across the room at the woman he’d once fancied himself in love with; that woman was gone – if there was anything left of the warm, caring person that she had been, it was buried deep. This version of Alana had been a willing participant in a revenge plot that involved using Molly and his young stepson as bait; had planted assassins on either side of them. Hannibal looked at him questioningly and said,

 

“What’s to be done about that, Will?”

 

“N-no… please, no,” sobbed Margot.

 

Will narrowed his eyes at Alana, who was shaking visibly, and then looked over her shoulder to meet Hannibal’s stygian gaze. He felt an overwhelming sense of power at the idea of having this man deemed monster kill or not at his word; it shook him to the core. When he spoke, his voice was thickened slightly.

 

“Dr. Bloom, what was it you were saying about my true nature?”

 

“You’re not a killer, Will,” she said, desperately, “I didn’t believe you the last time, and I was wrong.”

 

“I wasn’t entirely innocent then either,” commented Will, the edge of his knife drawing a bead of blood from Margot’s throat when her struggles became intrusive. She went very still, except the muted hitching of her chest with her defeated weeping.

 

“Hannibal has shown me a great deal about myself,” he said. Looking up at Hannibal, he added,

 

“I think that promises are meant to be kept.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes darkened with approval; with a brief nod of acknowledgment, he applied a precise, brutal amount of force and twisted Alana’s head on the slender stem of her neck. The crack of her neck breaking was like a snapped branch, and he dropped her body on the floor, stepping over it without a second look. He paused to look Margot in the face, and said,

 

“Our bargain remains intact, Margot. I’m going to secure you to the bed now – housekeeping will find you in the morning, quite unharmed. We’ll make no plans to call on you – be sure to extend us the same courtesy.”

 

Margot, still weeping, went to the bed cooperatively, averting her gaze from Alana’s newly deceased body, and allowed Hannibal to bind and gag her without protest. Dr. Lecter paused on his way out the door to look back at the carnage spread across three rooms and couldn’t resist pulling Will against his chest for a kiss that promised much more when they were finally alone. Then, they stepped out and Will shut the door behind them.


	25. Chapter 25

The next morning, Will awakened to a stellar view of the lowering clouds threatening snow over the Chesapeake Bay and a not-unpleasant ache in his nether regions. Hannibal, of course, was already up; he always was, and Will found that he wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Hannibal was an early riser. Everything about him was efficient, honed to a lethal precision; he wouldn’t be caught lounging around in bed all day. A slight smile slanted across Will’s lips as he considered the challenge of keeping Dr. Lecter in bed all day; he’d have to try sometime, though he’d probably have trouble walking for a few days. He sat up a bit, propping himself comfortably against a pile of pillows and enjoying the softness of the ridiculously high thread count sheets against his bare skin, then reached over to Hannibal’s night stand to retrieve the tablet he’d left charging there.

 

He was just powering it on when Hannibal came in, bearing a steaming cappuccino in a tall mug. He put it down on the nightstand and indulged himself in the sight of a tousled Will Graham, finely muscled torso bare, propped up comfortably in his bed; mentally congratulating himself on his own exquisite taste, he tilted his head a fraction in open appreciation. Will looked up at him, reading the look perfectly well, and dropped his gaze, a faint flush coloring his cheekbones.

 

“Morning,” he said, aiming for a casual tone, “is that for me?”

 

“I thought you might enjoy it, yes,” replied Dr. Lecter, “I trust that you slept well.”

 

“Yes – no nightmares at all,” said Will, in the vaguely wondering tone of someone who speaks at the same time realization comes. He paused and added, curiously,

 

“How did you know when I woke up? Or is your timing just that perfect?”

 

“Your scent changed,” Hannibal replied, as though it was perfectly normal for a human being to have a sense of smell that keen, “there is a note of vetiver when you awaken – shadowed, astringent ... earthy, like newly tilled soil.” Will chuffed a short bark of laughter.

 

“You may have missed your calling, Doctor,” he said, “you’d have made an amazing perfumier.”

 

“One does not need to be an artist to appreciate fine art,” replied Hannibal, with a faint smile that touched the corners of his eyes instead of his lips.

 

“I guess not,” said Will, reaching for his mug and taking a sip; a spot of the frothy milk lingered on his top lip, tempting Hannibal to kiss it off. Instead, he gestured toward the tablet, temporarily forgotten in Will’s lap.

 

“The news is certainly lively today.”

 

“Is it? I haven’t had a chance to look yet. Anything we need to worry about?”

 

“I shouldn’t think so. It seems that Margot’s sense of self-preservation is as intact as ever. Three men murdered in a cheap motel, probably a drug deal gone awry.” He paused, and then added,

 

“No mention of Dr. Bloom.”

 

“I guess Margot managed to wiggle out of her bonds before the maid came, then.”

 

“I didn’t secure her very tightly,” said Hannibal, “I wished to give her the opportunity to spin her tale as she wished, once we were safely away.”

 

“Nice of you.”

 

“I am a man of my word.”

 

“Alana Bloom could testify to that… if she could testify to anything, that is.”

 

“Do you regret her death, Will?”

 

“No more than you regret killing her. Alana got what she deserved – you play, you pay.”

 

Hannibal made a low hum of agreement, then said,

 

“I’ll be out for a while this afternoon.”

 

“Where are you going?” inquired Will, with a slight frown.

 

“Only to obtain some things for dinner,” said Hannibal, “I will only be away for a couple of hours.”

 

*  


While Hannibal was out, Will discovered what he meant when he’d said that the news had been lively – it hadn’t been because of the three dead men found by the maid at the Traveler’s Rest. While the FBI (and the rest of the country, it seemed) had been preoccupied with Hannibal Lecter’s escape with his former patient, the Tooth Fairy had killed again, taking out a family in Crystal Lake, just outside of Chicago. They were now calling him the Red Dragon, thanks to a letter that he had sent directly to the New York Times explaining his great Becoming (no doubt thanks to the fact that his letter to Hannibal hadn’t gotten him anywhere). The family had been like the others – well off, apparently happy marriage, two kids and a dog.

 

Will perused the photos of the deceased with a slight grimace; he wondered whether he would have eventually caught this killer or not. It was, after all, what Jack had dragged him out of retirement for. He wondered too, whether Jack regretted that decision in light of where they had all ended up. He hoped so. Jack Crawford had never been hesitant to use a tool until it was broken beyond repair. Closing the tablet, he decided to indulge in a long, hot shower.

 

When he finally emerged from the steamy bathroom, a towel casually wrapped around his waist, he discovered that a long garment bag had been left on the bed for him. Evidently, Hannibal had returned from whatever mysterious errand he had been on; Will could distantly hear him moving around in the kitchen. Curious, he unzipped the bag; resting within, he found an exquisitely tailored dark gray suit, almost black; a shirt the color of the watery winter sky over the bay, and a navy blue tie with striations of black and gunmetal gray. On the dresser, there was a shoebox and a small wooden box that hadn’t been there before – the latter contained several pairs of cufflinks, all of which would coordinate with the clothing that Will was somehow sure would fit him perfectly. He felt a strange flutter of excitement in his belly at the idea of being completely clad in clothing that Hannibal had selected for him – also, a tense and pleasurable anticipation of whatever meal Hannibal was planning to serve that required this level of preparation.


	26. Chapter 26

By the time Will had finished dressing, it was dark outside and the rich aroma of cooking had seeped into the room, making his stomach growl; he looked himself over analytically in the mirror to make sure everything was in place, then selected a pair of gunmetal cufflinks to complete the ensemble. Everything fit as perfectly as if he’d been measured specifically for it; he considered the fact that Hannibal was so intimately familiar with his body that he’d memorized his measurements, and it brought a becoming flush of pleasure to his face. Fairly thrumming with anticipation, he opened the bedroom door and padded down the hallway toward the sound of music.

 

The house was dim, but not dark, lit nearly entirely by candles and a fire burning in the hearth, everything softened and shadowy, outlined in orange and gold. He found Hannibal at the harpsichord; he was playing something that sounded very familiar, with great skill; Will finally placed it as Bach’s Goldberg Variations. The music of the harpsichord doesn’t carry for long; when Dr. Lecter looked up and saw Will, his hands stopped moving over the keys, and his breath caught. Holding Will whole in his dark gaze, he stood and closed the cover. He was wearing a dark suit as well, sharply tailored, with a pinstriped vest and a deep burgundy tie; he looked sleek, elegant and dangerous and Will was enraptured.

 

Two glasses of wine stood on the mantelpiece; Dr. Lecter went and retrieved them, handing one to Will and holding his own up slightly so that it caught the firelight, like blood in crystal, before inhaling a breath and savoring a mouthful of the splendid Merlot.

 

“Whatever’s for dinner, it smells great,” said Will, finally breaking the weighty silence.

 

“I promise you that it will not disappoint,” said Hannibal, favoring him with a slightly secretive smile, “come – I’ll be serving the first course tableside.”

 

They hadn’t been using the dining room, usually choosing to eat in the less formal dining nook in the kitchen where they could see the ocean; Will was impressed to see it now, bright with candleabras and a large floral arrangement screening off part of the table to create a smaller, more intimate space. The centerpiece was an almost macabre, yet strangely beautiful, sculpture of driftwood, pomegranates and the skull of a small deer with honeywort and winter jasmine blossoming from the empty eye sockets.

 

“You said we were having a dinner party,” commented Will, looking sidelong toward Hannibal as he moved around the side of the table with his usual lithe economy of motion, “does it still count if there are only two of us?”

 

Dr. Lecter turned to face him fully, placing his wine glass on the table.

 

“Will, you told me once that you needed Jack to see you … to see what you have become,” he said, “I don’t believe that was entirely untrue, even if you thought so as you said it.”

 

Will’s eyes narrowed a fraction in thought, holding Hannibal’s gaze.

 

“I think that it was the truth disguised as what I wanted to be a lie at the time,” he said, finally.

 

“Very good.” Dr. Lecter’s voice was low pitched and warm.

 

“Two of your old colleagues will be joining us for dinner.”

 

He stepped away then, and moved the enormous floral arrangement to the nearby sideboard. At the other end of the table, occupying the chair at the head of the table, was Jack Crawford, in the flesh. He was wearing a suit and tie, and looked rather dazed; an IV drip stood beside him on a wheeled stand. At his right hand, like a reluctant date, Kade Prurnell was similarly medicated and dressed for dinner, in a deep red dress with a high neck; she blinked slowly, struggling to focus on the two men who had just entered the room. Jack’s eyes widened, despite whatever drugs he’d been given.

 

“Will,” he said, hoarsely, “what – why are you –“

 

Will stared at the two guests for a long moment; Hannibal watched him closely. Finally, Will tilted his head a little; lifting an eyebrow a fraction, he smiled.

 

“Hello, Jack.”


	27. Chapter 27

Will turned toward Hannibal, his blue eyes both warm and stormy, the coalescent blend sparking lightning and flares of heat.

 

“However did you catch them?”

 

“A favor from Margot Verger,” said Hannibal, his redly glinting gaze as intent upon Will as if they were the only two people in the room, “Ms. Prurnell has an interest in politics… the Vergers have more than one politician in their proverbial pocket. Jack thought that Margot had some new evidence regarding your whereabouts. They both came to catch a ride with the Verger helicopter – instead, they caught a ride with me.”

 

“Ah. That was the other matter than you mentioned, then.”

 

“Yes. I wanted to surprise you.”

 

Will’s gaze drifted toward Jack, who was struggling for clarity, and then, with a moue of distaste, settled upon Kade Prurnell, before moving back toward Hannibal.

 

“You never cease to surprise me,” he said, wryly. He came to Dr. Lecter then, pausing only when he was merely a foot away from the older man, leaned into him, and breathed,

 

“I think I’d rather have Jack a little more aware, though.”

 

Hannibal lifted a hand then, cupping his jaw and leaning in to kiss his temple, his jawline, and the side of his neck.

 

“You have only to ask, Will,” he said. The mirroring of his response when he’d asked Hannibal to take him to bed the first time made the fine hairs prickle across Will’s forearms beneath the fine fabric and he swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Dr. Lecter went swiftly to Jack then, opening a black medical bag that he’d left on the nearby chair and withdrawing a syringe.

 

“This will clear his mind,” he informed Will, over his shoulder, “but the IV drip will continue to severely limit his mobility.”

 

“Perfect,” murmured Will, picking up his wine glass and savoring a long sip. Kade Prurnell stared at him through slightly red rimmed eyes; she seemed to be having trouble focusing, and frowned at him.

 

“Agent Graham,” she mumbled, “you’re supposed to be dead.”

 

“Must be disappointing for you,” said Will, deliberately allowing a hint of Louisiana drawl into his tone because he knew it had always annoyed her. Her frown deepened and annoyance seeped into her slack features as she gathered herself.

 

“You were never anything but white trash,” she announced quite loudly, “you weren’t even good enough for the classroom, let alone the field.”

 

Jack was shuddering as Dr. Lecter administered the stimulant. Will watched the doctor’s steady, elegant hands briefly for a moment with barely banked lust, and then returned his attention to Kade.

 

“You never thought I was good enough for anything,” said Will, harshly, “every time I turned my back, there you were to stick a knife in it. How will you like being on the receiving end, I wonder?”

 

“Jack should’ve left you as a … a mechanic for fishing boats,” she slurred, “your hands were always dirty.”

 

Not sure whether she meant it literally or figuratively, Will turned toward Jack as the stimulant kicked in and he inhaled a series of gasping breaths.

 

“Thank you for joining us, Jack,” said Hannibal, politely, “excuse me just a moment.”

 

He stepped from the room and Jack stared hard at Will; the former profiler had lost the twitchy, self-effacing façade he had always worn; he looked calm and confident, dressed exquisitely in the bespoke suit than Hannibal had brought him.

 

“Will,” rasped Jack, “what happened to you? Why are you here?”

 

“This is where I belong, Jack,” said Will, meet Jack’s eyes levelly, “it was always where I belonged.”

 

“What about Molly, Will?” ground out Jack, going for what he saw as the soft spot, “what about Wally? Your life with them?”

 

“A pleasant, but dim, purgatory,” said Will, his gaze warming visibly as he looked toward the door.

 

Hannibal returned with a stainless serving cart; it was replete with his burners, pans, and condiments in small crystal bowls. He fired up his burners and added Charante butter to his copper fait-tout, swirling the melting butter with seemingly effortless elegance to make beurre-noisette, before setting the browned butter aside on a trivet.

 

“Dr. Lecter,” said Jack, his tone at once angry and pleading.

 

Hannibal placed a small tureen before Kade Prurnell.

 

“I do hope that you aren’t planning to waste our time with tiresome appeals to Will’s morality,” he said, without bothering to turn around. He placed a straw in the tureen and added,

 

“Don’t bother to wait for us, Ms. Prurnell – have some of your soup while it’s hot.”

 

“What have you done to him?” growled Jack.

 

“Nothing that I didn’t enjoy,” said Will, casually. His chin tilted toward Hannibal, displaying the still healing bite mark on the side of his neck. Jack stared at it for a long moment, fury and despair warring in his face. Kade made a face as she took a sip through the straw.

 

“This tastes terrible,” she said, “I thought you were supposed to be a good cook.”

 

“It’s a parsley and thyme infusion,” said Hannibal, ever polite, “and more for our sake than yours. Have a few sips and let it circulate.”

 

Jack narrowed his eyes in obvious conflict; he’d never liked Kade Prurnell, but shuddered to think of what her fate would be.

 

“I wouldn’t feel too bad for her if I were you, Jack,” said Will, sitting down and having a sip of his wine, “after all, she rolled you right under the bus to further her agenda. In fact, she sold your career to Mason Verger.”

 

Kade did not seem to be herself at all. She sipped from the straw and rolled her eyes toward Jack.

 

“I don’t pretend to know why you thought this … redneck … could do anything. You shot yourself in the foot Jack. I’m going to Congress, maybe I could hire him as a secretary – he at least looks nice in a suit. I’m surprised.”

 

Dr. Lecter added shallots to his hot browned butter and as soon as their scent rose, he added minced caper berries. He took the saucepan off the fire, and set his sauté pan on the heat. From the sideboard he brought over a crystal bowl of ice cold water and a silver salver and put them beside Kade Prurnell.

 

“That smells great,” commented Will. Jack looked vaguely nauseous, trying so hard to move despite the drugs holding him immobile.

 

“Ms. Prurnell, I don’t expect you to change your attitude,” said Hannibal, “I’m afraid that people like you rarely do. However, for the sake of our guests, I _do_ expect you to at least keep an open mind.”

 

With that, he brushed the concealing hair away from her forehead to reveal a thin crimson line that ran across it like a red string; using the top of her hair like the handle of a lid, he lifted away the top of her head to reveal the lightly pulsing dome of her brain. She looked up, trying to follow his movements. There was very little blood, Dr. Lecter having already tied off all of the major arteries and neatly sealed the rest in the kitchen. His anesthetics were excellent; she evidently felt no pain. Jack Crawford retched, shuddering with revulsion and shock, his eyes watering redly.

 

Will followed the movement of Hannibal’s surgeon’s hands with avid interest as he removed a slice of Ms. Prurnell’s prefrontal lobe, then another, until he had four, then deposited them in the bowl of ice water, laced with the acidic juice of a lemon.

 

“Dr. Lecter – Hannibal,” gasped Jack, “please – stop this.”

 

Impervious to the pleas of any of his victims, especially those who had been particularly offensive, Hannibal ignored him as he dredged the slices of brain in brioche crumbs. Will, however, found that a vicious part of him wanted Jack to know, to see, exactly what was going on here; it was a bright, merciless impulse, keenly sharp.

 

“You always thought you knew best, Jack – no matter what the cost,” he said, cruelly, “you were happy enough to martyr me in the name of the greater good.”

 

Hannibal looked at him sidelong, a warm glance of approval, before dexterously sautéing the slices until they were golden brown.

 

“I always felt like you were right, because we were, after all, _saving lives_ ,” said Will, narrowing his eyes in Jack’s direction, as Kade Prurnell announced loudly that Jack never belonged at the bureau because nobody would want a _colored_ man solving crimes.

 

“Really though, you don’t know anything,” said Will, watching as Hannibal plated the freshly browned brains on broad croutons with watercress, “half the lives I saved didn’t deserve saving.”

 

“Would you care for a bite, Jack?” inquired Dr. Lecter, politely. Crawford looked rather green as Will bit into a slice of brain, his eyes closing briefly with pleasure.

 

“What are we going to do with him?” inquired Will, tilting his head toward Jack inquisitively.

 

Hannibal looked across the table, meeting his gaze and holding it.

 

“What do you wish you had done, Will? Do you remember?”

 

“Yes,” murmured Will. He stood, Crawford’s eyes tracking him warily as Kade Prurnell recited nursery rhymes with her brain partially eaten. Hannibal watched him with a dark, besotted expression touching his face, the candlelight flickering across his high, Nordic cheekbones as Will slid a hand inside his unbuttoned jacket and unsnapped the strap over the short crossbar of the Buck hunting knife sheathed at his side.

 

“Will – you don’t have to do this,” said Jack, desperately.

 

“No… I don’t,” said Will, sliding the sharply honed blade free as he strode across the room, closing the distance between himself and Jack in three swift steps. He looked across the table at Hannibal, then down at Jack.

 

“I should have done this three years ago,” he said, roughly. Dr. Lecter watched him in silence, his eyes hooded. Will moved behind Jack, the blade pressed against his strong neck, just over the scar from where Hannibal had once plunged a piece of broken glass into it. Without further hesitation, with an unwavering, smooth motion, he thrust the blade straight through the scar tissue and into Crawford’s neck, the keenly honed edge facing forward; Jack’s eyes bulged, his mouth gaped in a hoarse attempt at a scream around the steel buried in his throat, and then Will yanked the blade out through the front of his neck, severing his carotid with the brutal sweep and releasing a hot spray of blood over the fine china and crystal. Red blossoms opened in the white damask tablecloth and thick arterial blood poured down the front of Jack’s shirt before his eyes glazed and the light left them.

 

Kade’s singsong rhymes were becoming obtrusive. Dr. Lecter picked up a steak knife and drove it through her heart in a swift, efficient thrust. The handle twitched a few times and then stopped; silence reigned over the room, the scent of blood metallic and intense.


	28. Chapter 28

Hannibal and Will stared at each other for a slow beat across the table, the last breaths of their respective victims dissipating in the charged air; then Will dropped the bloody hunting knife onto the ruined tablecloth and came around behind Jack’s body. Hannibal met him halfway; he didn’t touch him immediately, just drank in the sight of him; vibrating with slowly waning violence and radiant with bloodshed. Dr. Lecter took a deep breath and held Will’s scent in his mouth and sinuses, fancied that he could feel it seeping into his cells – petrichor and copper and the unique earthy, musky smell of his growing arousal. Finally, he placed a hand on the side of Will’s face; the younger man’s nostrils flared slightly, like a skittish colt, and he took a shuddering breath.

 

Holding his gaze, Hannibal spoke with steady reverence.

 

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.” He did not look down at the still form of Jack Crawford; his head was down at an awkward angle – Will had half severed it from his neck. Hannibal looked only into Will’s stormy blue eyes, his own a deep, rich claret in the flickering glow of candlelight.

 

“For both of us.”

 

Will leaned in then, mindlessly seeking Hannibal’s mouth and finding it, warm and yielding, sharp teeth behind pliant flesh. The seductive brush of tongues became a deepening kiss that had Will clutching the sleeves of Hannibal’s jacket and leaving bloody hand prints barely visible against the dark material, drew a low pitched moan that was stifled by Dr. Lecter’s deadly mouth. When they drew apart, Hannibal said,

 

“Jack Crawford was a sacrifice on the altar of your becoming. It is a better end than he deserved.”

 

“Was a sacrifice needed?” rasped Will, still gripping Hannibal’s sleeves fervently.

 

“God loves sacrifices,” said Hannibal, “why shouldn’t we?”

 

“We aren’t Him,” observed Will, still rather breathless. The corners of Hannibal’s lips curled up then, a dark and terrible incubus smile.

 

“Of that, I _am_ certain,” he said, rough and low. With dexterous fingers, he loosened the knot of Will’s tie, gently pulling the end free with a practiced touch of his thumb, and sliding it from Will’s collar. Will instinctively dropped his hands from Hannibal’s jacket and held perfectly still while the older man pushed the jacket over his shoulders and slid it down his arms, draping it over the back of Jack’s chair as though there wasn’t a fresh corpse cooling there. He made no move to remove any of his own clothing; instead, he continued to disrobe Will with deft and purposeful fingers, unfastening the fine shirt he wore a button at a time while Will struggled to remain still, cleanly muscled chest heaving slightly with increasingly erratic breaths as his skin was bared gradually. As he pulled the hem of Will’s shirt free of his trousers, Dr. Lecter leaned in to press heated kisses across the planes of the younger man’s chest, nipping and licking lightly at his stiffened nipples and making him gasp.

 

“What sacrifice would you take from me, Hannibal?” he asked, with some effort. It was difficult to concentrate when Hannibal, having just unfastened and dropped Will’s cufflinks into a nearby saucer, was unfastening his belt with smooth, economical movements of his surgeon’s hands.

 

“You are no sacrificial lamb, Will,” murmured Dr. Lecter, “but you do have a place upon the altar.”

 

He neatly slid the centerpiece out of the way, then pushed Will’s trousers and boxers down over his hips; picking him up as easily as a child, he deposited the younger man upon the edge of the table, and tidily removed his shoes and socks, and slipped his trousers the rest of the way off, leaving him completely bare beneath the dancing candlelight and the unseeing audience of the former FBI section chief and Deputy Assistant Prurnell. Dr. Lecter, still fully dressed, pushed Will’s pale, muscular thighs apart and stepped solidly between them, pulling their groins flush at the edge of the table. Will’s arms came up to wrap around his shoulders, the material of his jacket faintly scratchy against the underside of his forearms, and Hannibal lowered his head to kiss him again, this time slowly, almost worshipfully. His sinful mouth – Will couldn’t get enough of that mouth – gradually moved beneath his jaw, hot and dangerous, and Will moaned involuntarily at the contact of sharp canines and burning tongue. He felt almost flayed, vulnerable and powerful all at once, bared in every way.

 

Hannibal stepped away for long enough to remove only his jacket; his shirtsleeves were still immaculate, vest tidy and seemingly incongruous with the carnage a few feet away. He draped it casually over a nearby chair, and then placed a gentle, implacable hand in the center of Will’s chest, pushing him gradually down until he was flat on his back in the center of the table, feet still dangling just above the shining hardwood floor. His bare stomach and chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, thrumming with anticipation as Hannibal ran a contemplative tongue over his bottom lip and then, predatory and feral, leaning over him and taking Will’s achingly hard cock in his hot mouth, sucking him smoothly down to the root.

 

“Jesus, _fuck_ – “ Will almost whimpered, muscles jerking involuntarily as he felt Hannibal swallow around his cock, then begin to suck him off in long, slow strokes; the wet sound of suction and the overwhelming sensation was nearly too much, as it went on and on, the predator backing off to lap at the slit at the swollen, dusky tip of his cock before swallowing him down again. Heat began to uncoil in his loins and his breath was stuttering, hands gripping the bunched up tablecloth in dampened wads of fabric, when Dr. Lecter drew back and stood, looking down at Will, beautiful and flushed and wanton, nearly undone.

 

“Please,” he whispered, harshly, “please.” Jack’s blood had soaked the tablecloth nearly as far as where Will was lying; the dampness of the material clenched in Will’s hand was not only sweat. Hannibal turned to the sideboard and returned with a small cruet of olive oil. It would do. He was intensely moved by the tableaux before him – Will, supine and wanton, candelight flickering over both Will’s sweat sheened body and the unmoving corpses of their victims; the smell of blood and arousal sharp and musky in his nose – and paused to admire the brutal art they had created together. Will whined impatiently. Hannibal reached down and pulled Will further toward the edge of the table with both hands. Will bent one leg so that the arch of his foot was propped on the very edge, and Hannibal poured a generous amount of oil into his palm, then drizzled more down the crease of Will’s buttocks, deftly slicking his own digits before sliding one finger inside him. Will’s tight heat clenched as Dr. Lecter lightly massaged his prostate, honing in upon the most sensitive spot with the effortless expertise of anatomy that contributed to his success as a killer.

 

“Hannibal – _fuck me_  ,” gasped Will, unable and unwilling to wait.

 

“If you insist, Will,” replied Dr. Lecter; he sounded annoyingly composed, but there was a rough, underlying danger to his voice that Will recognized and responded to. Hannibal reached down and unbuckled his belt, freeing his thick cock with a few efficient rearrangements of material, and slicked the length of it with a generous application of oil.  Hooking a hand behind Will’s knee, he draped the younger man’s leg over his broad shoulder, still neatly clad in his pinstriped black waistcoat; he entered Will slowly, letting him adjust to his girth, and Will reached a hand up to Dr. Lecter’s face, mindlessly exploring with his fingers, seeking the heat of Hannibal’s mouth and finding a sharp canine, low groans spilling from his parted lips as he felt split apart, stretched uncomfortably wide on Hannibal’s cock. When Hannibal was fully seated within him, Will’s entire body was spasming lightly in reaction; then he began to move, the blunt tip of his cock dragging across Will’s prostate with every thrust.

 

It was not gentle, nor did Will want it to be; he hooked his other leg around Hannibal’s hip and pushed back against the delicious friction, as Hannibal fucked into him harder and faster. Across the table, a wine glass fell over and shattered on the floor, unnoticed by anyone, and was soon followed by a saucer. Will, vocal in his encouragement, brokenly murmuring profanities laced with guttural moans, and the rough slap of flesh against flesh filled the room as Hannibal drove into him, his neatly gelled hair falling loose over his brow, Will’s hand no longer exploring – his fingers were clenched hard at the nape of Hannibal’s neck. His other hand found his own aching erection and grasped it; one stroke, two and then he was coming _hard_ , painting Dr, Lecter’s elegant vest with in hot spurts. Hannibal, growing close to completion himself, was undone by the way Will clenched spasmodically around his length as he came, and he snapped his hips forward one last time, emptying himself inside Will’s body, breathing harshly in tearing gasps.

 

At length, Will opened his eyes and looked up at Hannibal, flushed and dazed and radiant. The room was an absolute disaster; blood everywhere, two dead bodies, and a fair bit of broken china and crystal.

 

“We’ll eat in the kitchen,” breathed Hannibal.

 


	29. Chapter 29

A few moments of cleanup was required before the meal, at least of their persons – the rest of the dining room was a lost cause for the moment. Eventually, Hannibal and Will made their way to the kitchen, Hannibal _sans_ his now-sticky vest and Will redressed in only his shirt, open at the collar, and his trousers. The tiled floor felt nicely cool under Will’s bare feet; he felt pleasantly overstimulated, his senses fully engaged. The kitchen was redolent with cooking aromas and his appetite, recently forgotten about in favor of other things, came to life with feral interest.

 

Hannibal filled a glass of ice cold water and handed it to him.

 

“Why don’t you have a seat at the table, Will? The quail will be finished in a moment,” he said.

 

“Quail sounds good.” Will took his water over to the table and deposited himself gingerly in a chair at the table by the window, wincing slightly at the ache in his backside. He suspected he was going to be sore for a day or so, but couldn’t bring himself to care – he felt thoroughly satisfied; well-fucked and utterly possessed - physically, mentally and emotionally - in a way he’d never experienced. Killing Jack had been cathartic; the path that had split when he’d chosen the truth and all of its terrible consequences had come back together – not unlike a broken teacup. Will absently watched the shifting musculature of Hannibal’s broad back and the deft, precise movement of his hands as he moved capably around the kitchen, moving two stuffed quail to a broad skillet gleaming with duck fat. A heavenly aroma rose as he browned them, adding fat green grapes before transferring everything to a large broiler pan and deglazing the skillet with Armagnac and veal stock.

 

“What shall we do with the bodies?” said Will, at length. He was idly considering some interesting displays that could be made of Kade Prurnell’s depleted head, but skeptical of how practical it would be.

 

“I’ll take them outside after dinner,” replied Hannibal, giving him a fond, sidelong look, “we can dispose of them before we leave in the morning.”

 

“You make them sound like Hefty bags,” said Will, amused, “I hope you’re not planning to leave them in the trash can for the garbage man to find.”

 

“Not at all, they wouldn’t fit,” said Hannibal, ever practical, “I’ll simply throw them over the cliff. We’ll be well away before they are found – if they are found at all. The current is very strong in this part of the bay.” Will couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed or not by the lack of pageantry, but he supposed Hannibal was right.

 

Hannibal pureed his sauce in the blender and returned it to the skillet to reduce, adding a dollop of duck fat to a second, smaller skillet to sauté chanterelles while the quail crisped under the broiler. He had the whole thing plated beautifully five minutes later, and paired it with an intense Syrah before bringing Will’s plate to the table and placing it in front of him.

*

As they shared the last meal they’d have here, the blustery winter wind threw crystals of ice against the tall windows, and the bluff continued to erode.

 

Morning would bring a flurry of activity, light packing, and arrangements to be made; Baltimore and the Chesapeake Bay would become a part of their old lives – they would shed it as a serpent sheds its skin, and emerge together, bright and splendid and deadly.

 

They would be out of the country by nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Epilogue to follow... :)


	30. Epilogue

Three Months Later

 

_Just outside Agrigento, Sicily_

 

Will Graham stands at the edge of the terrace of a genteelly aging, exquisitely appointed villa in the verdant Italian countryside, his hands resting lightly on the crumbling plaster of the broad, flat railing. It is early evening, the setting sun throwing orange light across the hilly landscape below and lengthening the shadows thrown by tall cypresses; just in the distance, he can see the Temple of Concordia atop the ridge that is oddly misnamed the Valley of the Temples, dying sunlight pouring between the Doric columns. It is not quite on the ocean, but not far West lies Scala dei Turchi, and he and Hannibal have spent some idyllic hours exploring the stepped white cliff overlooking the beach. The new city of Agrigento is not immediately visually appealing, with its huge elevated motorways converging on a ragged hilltop center and harsh, unadorned tower blocks, but beyond the repellant outer ring, there is still the medieval core, elevated by the historic churches and trattorias and markets lining the Via Atenea. It is not a cultural center that anyone might be expected to look for them near.

 

They have killed hardly anyone since they have arrived here; Will’s shifting moral center still balks at murdering someone for a rude comment, but has expanded sufficiently to accommodate the truly deserving. It is late spring here, and the nights are still pleasantly cool. Will is improving his conversational Italian with Hannibal’s help, and he has found that he enjoys the evocative music in it. Sometimes they dine on the terrace; sometimes they don’t finish dinner.

 

The terrace doors are open to let the air in; he can hear approaching footsteps, but not only one set of them. Hannibal stands in the doorway, a lean silhouette with the lamplight behind him, sleeves rolled back to the elbow. Four large paws comprise most of the noise, as Nero – the ridiculously large Cane Corso that Hannibal presented to him after their first month here – pads over to him, tongue lolling out, and nudges his hand to be petted. Absently scratching behind the soft, floppy ears, Will grins involuntarily, wondering if Hannibal had gotten him an oversized dog in the hopes that it would prevent him from collecting a pack of smaller ones.

 

“Dinner?” he asks.

 

“Aperitivo,” replies Hannibal, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile as he hands Will a glass. Lately, Hannibal likes to make traditional Italian cocktails to preface dinner; this one is less whimsical than those he occasionally forays into – a classic Negroni, garnished with orange peel.

 

“Mason is dead.”

 

Will raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his drink.

 

“Took her long enough,” he says. It’s getting dark now and he follows Hannibal into the villa, Nero in tow.

 

“I imagine she was securing her legacy first,” comments Hannibal, as they enter the kitchen. It is at once rustic in décor and filled with modern appliances; the combination shouldn’t work as well as it does. On the sideboard - a broad, weathered wooden edifice that has survived since the late 1800s – Hannibal has plated an appetizer to pair with the drinks. Creamy _stracchino_ imported from Lombardy, with _grappolo pomodorini_ and fresh olives, piled atop crostini. It is, of course, delicious.

 

“So tell me about it – how did she do it?” Will inquires, full of morbid curiosity and a certain level of glee. If anyone was deserving of a nasty death, Mason Verger certainly was.

 

“He was found with a Brutal Moray stuffed down his throat.” Hannibal announces this with a certain relish.

 

“A brutal what -?”

 

“A large eel.”

 

Will blinks, and then shakes his head.

 

“Of course it is,” he mutters, darkly amused, “why wouldn’t it be.”

 

Hannibal takes a sip of his drink, pausing a moment to savor it as he savors everything. Will has never met anyone who enjoys life so thoroughly as Hannibal Lecter. Then, he picks up his tablet from the nearby counter and opens the cover, sliding it across the sideboard to Will so that he can read the headline.

 

“MURDER SPREE CONTINUES” fairly screams from the page. Below, an announcement that Hannibal Lecter has murdered “previous survivor and known philanthropist and meatpacking heir, Mason Verger” by asphyxiating him with a Muraena Kidako eel.

 

“I have to give it to her,” says Will, picking up a broad crouton and carefully balancing the aesthetic pile of ingredients on top as he brought it toward his mouth, “I could sort of see you doing this.”

 

Hannibal looks contemplative.

 

“Perhaps,” he concedes, “but it wouldn’t have been my preferred method.”

 

He considers Will in the context of the kitchen, pleased by the visible relaxation of his formerly rather dour and tense demeanor. Perhaps, he thinks, it is time to give him one last surprise.

 

“Wait here a moment,” he says, and leaves the room. Nero takes the opportunity to give Will the puppy eyes and try to cadge a treat; it never works on Hannibal, but Will can’t resist the look and sneaks him a bite before Hannibal returns, an envelope in his hands. He passes it to Will, who gives him an intensely curious look before putting his drink down and opening it.

 

“We’ll visit France next year, if you like,” Hannibal says.

 

“Why France – “ Will stops dead in his tracks as he unfolds a letter; the letterhead belongs to Université Paris Descartes in Paris. It isn’t the letter that stops his breath for a moment, though. A photograph slides out into his waiting hand; it is a young woman in her early twenties, wearing a fashionable blue coat with a matching scarf. Her long hair is light brown with blonde streaks, but he still recognizes Abigail Hobbs. Hannibal watches him in silence, his often impassive countenance warm. Will’s expression, when he looks up at Hannibal, is stunned; his chest hitches and he exhales a long, shuddering sigh.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, tone precarious with emotion.

 

“I wanted to surprise you,” says Hannibal, low pitched and rough, and Will can see something he didn’t expect from Hannibal Lecter; the man is actually unsure of himself in this moment.

 

“She is studying to become a doctor – she wished for me to ask that you attend her graduation ceremony.”

 

“Of course. Of course I will – _we_ will.” He puts the letter and photograph down on the counter then, and turns to face Hannibal, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing himself full length against the older man’s body. Hannibal grasps the sides of his shirt to pull him closer; their foreheads touch, and Will, for the first time, looks into Hannibal’s deep maroon eyes and breathes,

 

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read and left comments/kudos!! This was my very first fanfic, and I enjoyed writing it very much... so no doubt I'll be starting a new one soon. I hope you guys enjoyed.


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